Southern Comfort
by Evelyn Reid
Summary: "Sometimes everyone could use a little Southern Comfort." His smirk turned decidedly lecherous, and somehow I knew he wasn't talking about the drink. Daryl/OC M for language, sexual scenes, and violence.
1. Jesus With A Crossbow

A/N: first time attempting a Walking Dead fanfiction, but i enjoy the show and enjoy horror, and i enjoy Daryl Dixon (wink wink) so i figured this would be right up my alley.

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><p>Getting shot <em>hurts<em>. Pain races up your body, hitting you in faraway places like your neck even though you'd been shot in the leg. Searing heat blazes around the wound until you have to glance down to make sure you're not on fire, too. And that's if you're sitting still.

Once you get up and try to run, that's a while other ballpark. Add in screaming, so much adrenaline you feel like you're Uma Thurman from _Pulp Fiction_, and seven members of the undead, and suddenly you're wishing the bullet had hit your head.

Anyway, my point: getting shot _hurt_. Running made it hurt worse.

Black invaded the edges of my vision, blurring it, and I wondered briefly how much blood I'd lost. I wasn't going to make it; there wasn't anywhere to go. I was running blindly through the woods.

I felt the weight of the pistol in my hands and thought, _If I'm going to die, I will not die from them._ I lifted it to my head, my strides slowing, and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked…nothing.

I let out a sob, turning and throwing the useless gun at one of them. The gun bounced harmlessly off its shoulder, and as I sank to my knees, I heard a voice—no, a group of voices—calling out, "Sophia!"

_That's not my name_, I thought dimly. Then the undead began to close in, and my world went black, and I died.

* * *

><p>"Hey. Hey, girly, wake up!"<p>

Okay, so apparently, I hadn't died. Apparently, I had been rescued by a woman who reminded me of Sigourney Weaver from _Alien 2_, an Asian guy with a shirt meant for a pizza delivery boy and a baseball cap, a pissed-off blonde, and…what looked like Jesus with shorter hair and a crossbow.

"Daryl, you don't have to yell at her," said Sigourney Weaver softly.

"Well your gentle cooin' certainly wasn't workin'." Evidently, Daryl was the one with the crossbow. "C'mon, we gotta get a move on."

"Carol, she's awake," said Pizza Guy.

The woman, Carol, leaned farther over me and asked, "Are you alright?"

And that's when it hit me that this wasn't a hallucination. All at once, the pain, the fear, and the adrenaline flooded back. I scrambled up in a panic, tripping over myself and landing again hard.

"It's okay, calm down," said Pizza Guy.

"Where are they? Did you get them?" I whipped my head around, searching for any sign of—

"Relax, we got 'em," said Daryl. He slung his crossbow onto his shoulder and looked me up and down, lingering on the bloody mess of my upper thigh. The bullet had gone clean through, but most of the blood in my body was spread on the ground and soaking into my jeans. "Can you walk?"

"If I'm walking toward a doctor and people who aren't trying to eat me, you bet your ass I can walk."

The corner of his mouth turned up slightly. "I don't know about doctor, but I can sew you up and stop the bleeding when we reach the highway."

"Highway?" I stood shakily, wobbling, and Pizza Guy looped my arm around his neck. I was starting to feel woozy.

"You got a name, girly?"

"Jane," I said. The world pitched and I felt like I was going to pass out.

"Don't drop again," said Daryl, his voice sounding strangely distant. "Glenn won't be able to support you if you drop again."

I barely registered his words before I was met with black for a second time.

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><p>When I woke again, there was a stinging sensation on my thigh. I groaned loudly, feeling a tug and pull, multiple pinpricks—<p>

"Get off!" I yelled, feeling hands against my bare leg. "Where are my clothes? Who—Get off me, get off!"

"Christ!"

I stilled slightly at the voice. "You're Daryl, right? From the woods?"

"Yeah, girly, I'm Daryl. Now stop moving or I'll accidentally stitch your leg to your arm."

I winced at the pain as he pushed the needle through my skin. "Couldn't…" My face burned with embarrassment. "Couldn't a woman have done this?"

I was referring, of course, to my barely covered…regions…dangerously near where this gruff, scruffy man had his head.

He chuckled at my discomfort. "Nah, they don't know how to fix you up like I do. They woulda made a mess of it."

Looking around, I realized I was in an RV or trailer. I was laid out on the table while Daryl worked on my leg.

"Where are the others?" My memory was still slightly hazy, as if I'd been seeing through a fogged window, but I remembered there being others. "Pizza Guy and Angry Blonde and Sigourney Weaver."

Daryl looked amused. "Sigourney Weaver?"

"From the _Alien _movies?" At the lost look on his face, I just sighed. "Ouch!"

"Sorry."

_Doesn't sound sorry._

"I think you mean Glenn, Andrea, and Carol." He looked at me briefly, tugging again at the needle in my flesh.

"How many of you are there?"

"Couple more. Dale's a grey-haired coot in a fishing hat, you'll meet him soon enough. He and Carol are on the roof of the RV, keeping an eye out. A few of the group are at a farmhouse down a ways, and Carol's daughter got lost out there a day or so ago."

_Sophia? Is that who they were looking for when they found me?_

I watched him, wincing occasionally but trying not to be too big of a baby. He seemed like the kind to look down on me if I whined about something as trivial as a gunshot. These days, a gunshot was the least of your worries.

"The others?" I asked as he knotted the end of the stitches. "Do they have names?"

"Rick and Lori." He was reluctant to say—probably didn't care much for strangers—but apparently he hadn't deemed me much of a threat. I couldn't blame him. "Carl, their boy, got shot. That's why they're at the farmhouse. Glenn's about to take T-Dog there too. His arm got tore up pretty bad. Then there's Shane, a cop. He and Rick are both cops."

The names swam around in my head. I felt bad, but at the same time…would he blame me for not remembering?

"You're good, girly." He patted my calf, and I sat up, looking down in dismay at my jeans. He'd cut the material away from my leg in order to get at the wound.

"Do you have scissors? Or a knife?" I tugged at the other leg of my jeans. "At least make them even."

"'Cause we're going to care if your outfit is a little lopsided." He handed my a knife all the same, and once I'd ripped the material, feeling horribly exposed in the way-too-short used-to-be-jeans, I stood. "Try not to rip the stitches, girly."

"My name's Jane, not girly." I fidgeted uncomfortably. His eyes bore into mine. "Jane Bishop."

He held out a dirty, calloused hand. "Daryl Dixon."

In taking that hand, I changed my life forever.

* * *

><p>"Hey, girly," Daryl called. "How's that leg?"<p>

I rolled my eyes. He'd never really taken to calling me Jane. "Fine."

"You need any more meds?" He'd been offering pain pills from his brother's stash. At the worst peak of my pain, I only took three in two days. After that I refused.

It had been four days since I'd been saved. Andrea hadn't accepted me, had actually barely spoken to me, and Glenn and T-Dog had left just as Daryl said they would. That left Carol, who switched between concern for her still-lost daughter Sophia and a motherly attitude towards me, and Dale, who reminded me quite a bit of my grandfather.

For the most part, I made myself useful to Dale and Daryl when I could and kept to myself when I couldn't. Dale tried to keep pleasant conversation, telling stories about before the world went to hell, and asking questions about who I used to be. He didn't quite phrase his questions that way, but that's how I prefer to think of it. When I saw Dale with the guns and offered to clean them, he narrowed his eyes a little bit and said, "You know how to do that, Jane?"

"Sure do." I picked up a small handgun, examining it. "My dad taught me."

Daryl wasn't too far off, so I knew he could hear me. I also knew that when Dale asked me what I used to do for a living, Daryl turned just slightly in my direction. I directed my gaze at the gun.

"Beretta, 92FS," I murmured. "Nice gun."

Dale noticed I was avoiding his question, so he asked another one: "When did your dad teach you how to take apart and reassemble a gun?"

"I was about ten when he started teaching." I smiled wryly. This question I would answer. "About twenty-two when he stopped."

"Did he own a store or something?"

"No. Just a nut for guns. Liked the sound they made, liked how they looked, liked that they hurt people." I shrugged. "We had basically an armory in our basement, and when everything started, we packed it all up and…"

"You know where he is now?"

Daryl had asked this one. I shook my head slowly, then gestured at the woods next to the highway. "Out there somewhere. Probably still alive."

"You two get separated?"

_Something like that._

"He teach you how to shoot?"

Daryl, evidently, had decided it didn't matter if I answered the personal stuff. He didn't want my past—he wanted to know if I could survive on my own or if he'd have to watch my back the whole time. He wanted to know if I was going to be a burden or not.

I shook my head, not liking the way he was looking at me.

"I've only shot a gun twice in my life," I murmured. "My aim is terrible."

For an awkward moment, no one spoke. Daryl's eyes had narrowed as he realized I would be a burden. As of yet, he could see nothing that I contributed. Maybe this was why Andrea hated me. Maybe Daryl was just slow to realize I would only be a hindrance.

I handed the gun back to Dale. "You know, I think I'll go search the cars for some new clothes. The blood might attract…" I hesitated.

"Geeks," supplied Daryl.

"Geeks," I repeated slowly. "Yeah."

"We went through all of them." Dale pointed north up the road. "That silver coup's got some clothes in the trunk."

I nodded and headed off that way, weaving in between the cars. It reminded me of a cemetery, and opening the trunk of the coup made me feel like a grave robber.

I would take what I needed only. Maybe a jacket for when it got cold, in case I didn't run into more clothes before winter. I'd find a bag, a knapsack or something. Ask for a gun. Or even just take one. They probably didn't do inventory, and if I just snuck away with a gun with enough ammo to last until I reached somewhere, they probably wouldn't notice.

As soon as my leg was healed to where I could run, I'd leave. Farther south, maybe. Somewhere not that populated to start with, so maybe it wasn't hit as hard by the apocalypse. Maybe there weren't as many…geeks…there.

My hands shook slightly as I fumbled through the clothes. Suitcases, two of them, a man's and a woman's, were in this trunk. They were open, rifled through by probably a dozen people. These people's _lives_ were in these suitcases, and here they were tossed and chaotic, missing items—_Oh God, I'm going to be sick._

I bent over next to the car, breathing slowly. My thoughts turned to a backpack, black with red pockets, a backpack now abandoned in the woods somewhere, a backpack belonging to a pair of kind brown eyes. I imagined hands going through its contents the same way I was with these suitcases, picking it apart—I vomited onto the asphalt.

I heard footsteps behind me, jumping nearly a foot in the air when a hand clamped onto my shoulder.

"Just me," said Dale. "You alright?" His face was scrunched in concern.

"Fine." I held up a fistful of clothes; a ratty pair of jeans and plain purple T-shirt. "I'm gonna change, that okay?"

He nodded and I walked past him, into the RV. Carol was in the back, curled in a ball but finally sleeping. I couldn't blame her for taking a nap—she didn't sleep last night because she was crying so much, worried about Sophia. I peel off my shirt first. It used to be my favorite shirt, a faded yellow with a lace back. The fabric was worn and comfortable, the lace soft—at least, before the apocalypse. Now as I looked at it, it was muddy, stained with blood, and the lace was torn. I tossed it halfheartedly onto the floor, stripping my jeans off as well. Well, what was left of my jeans.

The new pants were faded slightly at the knees and fraying just the littlest bit at the cuffs. There was a worn hole near the front pocket, and they were comfortable as all hell, if a little small. They hugged my hips in a way I wasn't used to. The woman must have been a size smaller than me.

I let out a slow sigh, rolling the tension out of my shoulders—or trying to, anyway—and wincing at the throb in my leg.

"We need to talk."

"Shit!" I threw my hands across my chest. "Daryl, you can't just walk in like that! And shush, Carol's sleeping."

His eyes skimmed over my bare skin and he smirked. I threw my old mutilated jeans at him, throwing on the purple shirt while he was distracted. I immediately missed my old shirt. The new one was a bit big, and a V-neck, but it was clean, and in this kind of world, I guess it was trivial to complain about a shirt.

"I understand," Daryl began once I was clothed, "that you don't want to talk about your past, and that's fine by me. I think everyone should keep certain things to themselves. I don't wanna hear your life story, girly, but geeks don't fire guns, so I need to know if I gotta be worried that whoever shot you is coming back."

I paused for a moment, staring him down. It was a good question. A sensible question. A question I hadn't yet considered.

"No," I said finally. "I was left to die, expected to die. No one's coming back."

He eyed me carefully, sizing me up for the umpteenth time since he'd saved me. "You feeling okay, girly?"

"Fine," I answered for the second time. "Where's Andrea?"

Daryl pointed upwards, gesturing. "Keeping an eye out for anyone. You avoided the question."

"I answered it."

"You look stressed."

"Aren't we all?" I asked.

"You need to try and loosen up, girly. If you don't, you'll waste away out here. Stressing over everything will make you hate yourself. Stressing just enough will help you survive.

"Yes, well, to be fair, you don't know me or why I'm 'stressing'."

His eyes were scrutinizing me, and I knew what he saw. Raggedy Jane. Muddy, stringy red-blonde hair, round face smudged with blood and dirt, and a smile that hadn't reached gray eyes in a long while. Pathetic.

He reached over, his hand delving into a pile by the table. When it came up, he had a small bottle clutched in his fist.

"Found it in one of the cars," he said, tossing it at me. I caught it on reflex and peered at the label on the bottle. "Sometimes everyone could use a little Southern Comfort."

His smirk turned decidedly lecherous, and somehow I knew he wasn't talking about the drink.

"It'll do wonders for your stress level."

Still with that leering grin, he left the RV, and I watched him with my mouth agape and my mind seriously considering the offer.

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><p>AN: **review please! **:D


	2. Some Good Gratitude

A/N: glad people are liking this :) this isn't following the series too closely, but it's not completely AU.

onwards and upwards.

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><p>I did my best to push his words out of my mind as I gingerly put the bottle back on top of the pile. Besides, it wasn't like he'd been <em>hinting<em> at anything…right?

Judging from the sun, it was around noon when Daryl looked at Carol with a serious expression and said, "I don't know how much longer we can stay here."

Carol's eyes went wide with fear, hands trembling. "What do you mean?"

Daryl sighed. "We have to start thinking about movin' on to the farmhouse. If Sophia hasn't found her way back by now—"

"Then what?" Carol demanded, her voice cracking. "Then she'll never find her way back?"

"I didn't say that—"

"You didn't have to!" she wailed. She collapsed against the side of the RV. "Oh my Sophia, oh my little girl…"

My heart ached for her, it really did. I hadn't known them for very long, but for God's sake, I was human.

"Carol," said Andrea gently. "I know this is hard, but we have to think about—"

"We can't just leave her," sobbed Carol.

Andrea looked helplessly at Daryl. It was obvious she sided with him on this issue, but who could really look this distraught mother in the eye and tell her they had to leave the last spot she'd seen her daughter?

"One more day," I whispered.

Daryl swiveled his head to look at me. "What's that?"

"One more day to search. I'll go myself." I lifted my chin slightly, feigning bravery.

"You don't have a weapon and you can barely jog," said Dale, eyebrows knitting together. "What happens if you run into walkers?"

"We can't give you a gun," Andrea interrupted. Her arms were crossed over her chest almost defensively. "If you shoot, the sound will just draw more of them."

"Plus, you have terrible aim."

I didn't look to Daryl as he said this last mocking line, convinced that he'd be smirking. A muscle in my leg twitched. "Give me a knife. Or a crowbar. Or nothing at all. I don't care. Bottom line is I want to go out and look for Sophia. You guys can head out today if you want, or you can wait a day and leave tomorrow. Either way, I'm going."

My heart thudded in my chest and I hoped they wouldn't call my bluff. _Don__'__t__ leave __now, __I __don__'__t __want __to__ be __alone __like __that __again._ Dale was staring at me, shocked, Carol had a hand over her mouth, and Andrea was giving me a look like I was something she'd pulled out of her drain.

Daryl was the one that spoke. "You really gonna potentially kill yourself to look for a girl you never met before?"

_Yeah, Jane, are you?_

"You have a death wish, girly?"

_Do you, Jane?_

I met his gaze, saw the doubt and disbelief behind his eyes, and lied. "Maybe."

"I'll be damned," he muttered.

He walked past me, and for a second I nearly let my shoulders sag. I took it as a rejection and turned around, planning to go out on my own.

"Hey! Where ya heading?" Daryl's eyes were narrowed as he tossed a crowbar at me. I caught it the same way I caught the Southern Comfort bottle and tested its weight in my hands. "C'mon then."

Andrea raised her eyebrows and stepped toward him. "You're going with her?"

Daryl shrugged at her and said, "No use in letting the girl get killed. What's another day?" Then he fixed Carol with a firm but gentle look. "But we have to leave tomorrow, got it? We'll leave her some food and a sign telling her where we've gone."

Carol's only response was a nod and a grateful look at me. I exhaled slowly, trying not the let the relief show on my face.

"Girly, you comin' or not?"

I walked after him as quickly as I dared, the crowbar feeling awkward in my grip.

* * *

><p>He moved like a hunter, and I couldn't help thinking again about his comment as I watched him. The burly redneck type certainly wasn't my usual thing…<p>

_Stop it!_

I frowned at myself. That was going to get annoying real fast.

"Keep your wits, girly," he said gruffly. "I need you watchin' my back."

_Trust me, I'm watching._

My nerves were frazzled, everything hypersensitive. Every time a twig cracked in the woods, I flinched and whirled around anxiously. Daryl gave me weird glances at first, but after a couple of times he just ignored it.

"How long has she been missing?" I asked, trekking along behind him.

"Too long," he said.

I waited for more elaboration and received none. _Okay__then._ We continued on in silence, and I began to feel more than a little uncomfortable. "Daryl—"

He put a finger to his lips and I bristled. "Now hold on, I—"

Daryl spun on his heel, hand flashing out and covering my mouth. I struggled for a moment, until his eyes stared down into mine and he lifted his other hand to again put his finger to his mouth in a quieting gesture. He gingerly let me go, assured that I wouldn't make anymore noise, and then turned his attention to a little cluster of trees.

I heard the crunching of grass and twigs, looking where he was looking, and saw a walker stumble around the trees and pause to stare at us. I felt my pulse quicken, muscles stiffen, but Daryl was calm as can be as he raised his crossbow and took careful aim. The arrow fired, hitting the walker's forehead just off dead center. He was even grinning a little when he strode over and pulled the arrow free from the corpse. When his gaze met mine, however, he seemed confused.

"You afraid, girly?" he asked, peering at me. "You've killed one of these things before, haven't you?"

I licked my dry lips, tearing my eyes away from the thing that used to be human. "I have terrible aim, remember?"

For a second, I was struck with the certainty that he was going to laugh at me. He didn't, however, but instead shook his head from side to side in wonder. "How in hell have you survived this long?"

"I take offense to that," I protested.

He ignored my indignation, choosing instead to narrow his eyes and ask, "Who was protecting you?"

"None of your business."

"You were in a group, weren't you?" he demanded, stepping towards me almost threateningly. "What happened to them?"

Something in me snapped, and suddenly I was yelling at him. "They died!" I didn't even realize my voice was breaking. "They fucking died! Happy now, you cruel, sadistic, pushy—"

"Don't be insultin' me, I saved your ass from those geeks," he interrupted, taking another step near me. "Without me, you'da been dead just the same as them. How about showin' a little gratitude?"

"Gratitude?" I repeated incredulously. "Gratitude? I gave you gratitude! I help out, I thanked you, I don't bother anyone—"

"Calling me sadistic is your way of thanking me?"

_Oh__ my __fucking__ God.__ Is __he__ for__ real?_"_Thank __you_," I said, "for saving me from the fucking walkers. If there is any way I could _possibly _repay you, let me fucking know."

_I can't believe he doesn't think I'm grateful. I've been demure and quiet and helpful and obedient and never ONCE did I forget that they had saved my life. Why is he being such a—_

The look on his face silenced my thoughts. His lips were curved upwards in an odd kind of smile, his head slightly tilted, and he said, "Wanna have sex?"

I couldn't help it as my mouth dropped open. "No, I don't want to—"

"You need to loosen up, girly. I told you that already once, didn't I? You gotta be spry, on your toes, but if you're wound up tight like a coil ready to spring, you'll unravel a lot faster than ya think."

"I get it." I bit the inside of my cheek for a moment. "Loosey goosey. I can do loosey goosey later, just let me be a little tightly wound right now, okay? I don't think that—"

"A good fuck'll loosen you up quicker," he sang. "And of all the ways to relax, it's damn sure the most fun."

"What kind of man deems himself a 'good fuck'?" I asked, caught off guard by the way our conversation had turned.

He chuckled lightly. "You ever been with a man, girly?"

I'd heard 'girly' enough. He just couldn't call me Jane. I had a goddamn first name, didn't I? Why couldn't he use it? "Jane. Not girly. _Jane_."

Daryl held up his hands, palms out in an I-mean-no-harm gesture. "Alright, _Jane_. Just think about the offer."

He turned away from me, crossbow in hand, and went about like we hadn't just had the most awkward conversation in the history of the post-apocalyptic world. Awkward on my part, anyway. He had seemed almost disgustingly at ease.

I was positive that I wasn't going to take him up on his offer. My warring thoughts, however, gave a different story. The dry humor part of my brain made jokes and pop culture references, mainly having to deal with things like the movie _Friends__ with__ Benefits_ or _No__ Strings__ Attached_—which honestly, never know how they got away with that, seeing as how the premise of the two movies is _exactly__ the__ same_. The rational part of my brain was being pretty mellow. _He__'__s__ right__ that__ you__ need__ to__ relax,_ it said. _There__'__s __a __difference__ between__ caution__ and __paranoid,__ and__ paranoia__ will__ get __you __killed__ around__ here._

There was the romantic part of my brain, a quiet, tiny little voice telling me that he was probably a sweetheart deep down. I put a muzzle on that part almost immediately.

Finally, I was confronted with the majority area of my brain that controlled things like survival—_be__ nice __and __helpful __to __them__ so __they __won__'__t __kick __you __out_—and basic function. _He__'__s __hot, __he__'__s __offering __casual __tension-relieving__ sex, __and__ you__ could __die__ tomorrow.__ Take __him__ up__ on__ his __damn __offer._

These voices couldn't be healthy…

I continued warring with myself for the next four hours as we searched, in vain as it were, for Sophia. As we marched solemnly back to the highway, and as I dealt with the realization we'd have to tell Carol we hadn't found anything _again_ and watch her hope crumble _again_, I felt so very tired.

I was a wire coil curled so tightly that with any additional tension, the wire would snap and hit someone in the eye.

_It__'__s__ a__ one-time __thing, _I assured myself. _One __time __thing __and __it__'__s __over, __and__ no__ one __has __to __know __about __it. __You __need __to __unwind __somehow__ or __you__'__re __going__ to __implode._

I cleared my throat, swallowing my pride—which wasn't as difficult as I thought, evidently I didn't have much pride left—and said, "So…that offer you mentioned…that still…?"

Daryl's answering grin, both feral and oddly attractive, could have set the sun on fire.

* * *

><p>AN: i'm surprised that Daryl hasn't yet tried to procure some casual sex in the series. it seems like his personality haha.


	3. At Least It Wasn't Yours

A/N: learning that Daryl Dixon is a virgin threw me off track a little bit...especially considering i want to stay as true to the character as i possibly can...and then i realized that just watching the show you wouldn't think he was a virgin. so i continued on the original track for now, but the discovery of his virginity will show up later in my story. hehehe...*evil chuckle*

i keep changing the names of the chapters -_- i wasn't happy with them. now they're a little better. anywho.

* * *

><p>As night wore on, I thought that Daryl had been joking. He was probably laughing at me right now, must be so funny that he could make a fool out of me so easily—<p>

Lying on the floor of the RV, tucked in underneath the table, I hear the rustling of blankets. My eyes narrowed. Carol was in the back, sharing the space with Andrea, Dale was sleeping in the driver's chair, Daryl was on the couch—

My eyes slowly adjusted to the dark, and I realized Daryl wasn't on the couch.

_What the hell?_

A body moved in the darkness, crawling toward me slowly. For a split second, my heartbeat spiked, thinking irrationally that a zombie had gotten in. Then the warm body covered mine and a smooth-as-honey Georgia drawl whispered into my ear, "Bet you didn't think I was serious."

His stubble brushed my cheek as his hand drifted down to my jeans. "We gotta be quiet." The voice was deep and husky. "Wouldn't wanna wake anyone up."

* * *

><p>Release was a wonderful thing.<p>

Daryl had been right about that, I supposed.

The sex was spontaneous. Meaningless. Slightly awkward; strange considering Daryl's previous comments and general attitude. As much for stress relief as a deep breathing exercise, and for the few precious moments after I came down from my high, it was pure relaxed bliss. The tension was gone from my body.

Until reality came crashing down around me like a waterfall and I felt myself drowning.

I'd just had sex with a man I'd met less than a week ago. No condom either—there weren't any, and there hadn't been enough time to worry about not having any. I stood up from the floor of the RV, still reeling from the fact that we could have gotten caught at any moment if someone decided to wake up, and got dressed in a fog. Daryl still lay there, fast asleep, and naked, with a blanket.

I needed air. Never mind that it was dark. Never mind that I was the only one awake. Never mind that in horror movies this equation equaled me getting eaten by a zombie. If I didn't get fresh air _right now _I was going to throw up.

Again.

I opened the door of the trailer and took just a few steps before sinking to the ground. I felt guilty, I felt used, I felt stupid. I couldn't believe I'd actually taken him up on his offer.

_Then again_, said a little voice inside my head, _it wouldn't be the first time you'd agreed to such a proposition._

I squeezed my eyes shut, clenching my fists at my temples. Don't think about that. Not now.

My next emotion was anger. He took advantage of me.

_That's not fair. You didn't have to accept him._

I looked around in the black, my eyes attempting to adjust to the lack of light. It was definitely creepy out here.

_I could go tonight. Just hightail it out of here._

My leg began to ache and I sighed. I wasn't going anywhere. Not just because my leg hurt—that was a pansy-ass excuse—but because I was afraid.

I went back into the RV, closing the door and sitting on the steps. Hugging my knees, I exhaled, laid my head on my kneecaps and waited for morning.

* * *

><p>I woke up with stomach cramps that just wouldn't go away. I'd been getting little spurts of pain and, figuring it to be 'that time of the month' again, I ignored it. This was nothing like those little spurts. I clenched my jaw against it until it subsided enough to where I could stand, and when I did, I noticed right off that Daryl was staring at me. I shifted uncomfortably and looked around. Everyone else was still asleep. A quick glance out the windshield told me it was morning, and they'd be awake soon too.<p>

"So, uh…" I trailed off awkwardly.

Daryl just looked at me, expressionless, for a moment. "Listen, girly, it was fun and all—"

I stopped him there. _Fuck the speech. I don't want to hear it. _"No worries. I get it."

He seemed almost relieved that he didn't have to give his spiel. He brushed past me out the door, grabbing his crossbow, and said, "When they get up, tell them I went hunting…and tell Carol I'm still looking for Sophia."

My brow furrowed. "You shouldn't be going alone," I protested. "What if you run into…"

"I know how to handle myself around geeks. I'll be fine." Daryl's gaze went past me to the sleeping, huddled form of Carol. _Poor woman must be utterly exhausted. _"We leave for that farmhouse today. It's the last shot of looking for Sophia around here. Just tell her, will you?"

I watched him leave with mixed feelings. Part of me was pissed again—he'd actually been about to give me the 'it was fun but meant nothing' speech—but now I was feeling guilty. _He acts like a hardass, but he cares about Carol. _Torn between feeling angry or guilty, I picked angry. It was easier to be angry and live with myself than it was to be guilty.

* * *

><p>The stomach pain didn't go away. It continued for hours, through Daryl leaving and coming back empty-handed, through Andrea consoling Carol and giving me the first soft look since I arrived before asking to get Carol water, through driving to the farmhouse in Dale's RV while he shot me concerned looks in the rearview mirror.<p>

"There it is," said Dale. He peeked at me sideways again. "You look pale, Jane, are you sure you're okay?"

Andrea stepped up behind me suspiciously. "You weren't bitten, were you?"

"No," I said with as much conviction as I could. "I wasn't bitten, and Dale for the millionth time, I'm fine."

Except I wasn't fine. As soon as I made my declaration, I felt another round of pain, harshly biting my lip to keep from crying out.

"Jane?" Carol's voice filtered through as I curled in on myself as tightly as I could. "Jane?"

"I'm fine, Carol," I repeated.

Dale put the RV in park, and I felt his hand on my shoulder. "Maybe I should help you in."

"I can walk, Dale."

I stood up, taking those few steps out of the Winnebago, and dropped to my knees on the grass, clutching at my stomach. _Oh God, I'm going to die._

"Girly, hey, you're scaring us now." Daryl's voice was sharp.

I bit out a small laugh. "Nothing scares you, Daryl. I don't have to know you very long to know that."

The pain faded, leaving me gasping for breath. I swiped my hair away from my face and stood up. They gave me looks but said nothing as we walked up the steps to the front porch of the farmhouse. There was a young woman standing outside the door with Glenn, who gave me a cautious smile. I stopped by the young woman for a minute, asking where the bathroom was. She took in my pale face, contorted expression, and directed me inside and down a hall.

Once inside the bathroom, I leaned heavily on the sink. I hadn't even thought about closing the door. There was another spike of pain, and I dimly registered the blood stain spreading across my thighs. _Why me? Why does it have to be me?_

"_Shit_, girly," came a voice from the open doorway.

"Daryl," I said weakly, holding my breath through another spike of pain, "I think I tore my stitches."

"That's a whole helluva lot more blood than some ripped stitches, girly." He was trying to be lighthearted.

All ideas of joking left my head as I looked up at him with fear tightening my chest and said, "Something's wrong."

* * *

><p>"Hershel, Hershel, she's awake."<p>

I'd been awake for more of the pain. Now I felt strangely empty, my lower half throbbing and bleeding, and no one had told me anything. The pain had stopped some time ago—the bleeding hadn't.

The girl, Maggie as I would later find out, was wiping my forehead with a damp washcloth. I was lying on a bed, several towels propped below me, in a warmly-lit bedroom. The blood was coming from…

_Worst period ever,_ I thought wryly.

Hershel, an older man with white hair and a kind demeanor, looked down on me with sympathy on his face.

"What was wrong?" I asked. "Why am I still bleeding?"

Maggie had left the room, leaving just me and the doctor—who actually wasn't a doctor at all, but a veterinarian. I'd find that out later, too.

"I think it's best we save that for after you've fully recovered." His gaze was sad.

_Oh fuck. Is it that bad? _"Listen, if I'm dying, I want to know."

"You aren't dying."

"Just tell me," I pressed stubbornly. "What's wrong with me?"

There was a slight banging sound outside the door, and I heard Daryl's voice, "Whattaya mean we can't go in to see her? If she's okay, there's no reason she can't see anybody—"

_Daryl, if you keep acting like that, people will start to think you actually care._

"Daryl, if they say she's okay…" I nearly smiled. _Carol._

The banging sound only got louder, and I realized it was probably Daryl hitting the door. Hershel looked towards it once and then sighed.

"I'm sorry—" he began.

Daryl burst through the door, a doggedly angry look on his face, grumbling.

"—you've had a miscarriage."

* * *

><p>A knot formed in my throat, twisting, hardening, and dropping into my stomach like a stone. "I've…what?"<p>

Daryl's eyes were huge, nearly bugging out of his skull, and for a moment I thought, _He thinks the baby was his._

_Surely he can't be that dim. We had sex yesterday, it takes a whole lot longer than that to get pregnant—_

Then it truly hit. _Oh my God. Oh no, oh God. Nolan. It was Nolan's baby. I've lost Nolan's child._

"But I…I wasn't even…" I felt the tears form in my eyes and quickly overflow, but I didn't tear my eyes from Hershel.

He faltered. "You didn't know you were pregnant?"

"I…" _Nolan's child…Nolan's child. I've lost…I lost… _"How…" My voice broke pitifully. "How far along…"

"As far as I can tell, sixteen weeks or so. I'm sorry."

"Sixteen—" I choked on the word, rolled onto my side, and heaved. I coughed a few times before a flood of inconsolable loss slammed into me like a brick wall, and I was sobbing harder than I'd ever in my life.

"Hey," said Daryl, gentler than usual, as he took a step into the room. "Hey, girly."

"Go away." My voice sounded foreign in my own ears. Raw. "_Leave me the fuck alone!_"

* * *

><p>I didn't leave that bedroom for three days.<p>

* * *

><p>AN: apparently, Daryl is trying to portray himself as a certain kind of person, winkwink. i guess if you're gonna reinvent yourself, the apocalypse is a good time for that.

i've based Jane's miscarriage on the miscarriage of one of my best friends. i am not taking the loss of a pregnancy lightly. it's very serious and takes a huge emotional toll.


	4. Dirty Saint

A/N: one of my longer chapters. same as usual.

disclaimer: i don't own Daryl Dixon (damn) but i most certainly do own Jane Bishop, Grant Bishop, Owen Bishop, and Nolan Buford (oh Nolan...if only you were real...)

* * *

><p><em>When the world had gone to hell, it had been my father, my older brother Grant, myself, and Grant's best friend. My father had taken control almost immediately, packing up all the guns and ammunition in our home, loading it into his truck. I was the unwanted addition almost immediately. All the men could shoot. I could do nothing.<em>

_But Grant refused to leave me behind. He argued with our father for nearly an hour, before Dad finally gave up upon realizing we were losing precious time. Grant's best friend, a twenty-eight-year old reporter who was three years my senior, gave me the first smile of the apocalypse._

_His name was Nolan Buford._

_He had eyes the color of melted chocolate, a kindly smile, and a laugh that made me blush._

_With him, it was easy to forget that at any second, I could be killed. He always made me smile, always made me feel safe. Even when we joined forces with a few neighbors, when I was afraid of the way they would look at me. Even when my father would shift blame onto me for a death in our fragile group. It didn't mean anything, because Nolan would smile at me and I would be okay._

_Nolan carried around all his things in the red and black backpack he'd packed to stay the weekend at our house. Grant and I had both moved back home the previous year to care for Mom. I had rented an apartment with one of my friends after she passed away, but that didn't matter much after the apocalypse hit. _

_One day, Noland pulled out a little blue box and, with the most endearing flush on his cheeks, handed it to me late at night in front of the fire._

"_I had bought it as a birthday present for you," he told me._

_My birthday had been three months before the world ended. I told him so._

"_I was afraid to give it to you then," he admitted sheepishly._

_The present was a necklace, a little gold rose on a delicate chain. On his salary, it was more than he should have spent on my birthday present. We'd known each other for five years, but that didn't warrant such a present._

_My brother was the first person I loved to die after the world ended. When the undead got to him, when my father had to fire his gun into Grant's head, I collapsed against Nolan._

_That night, he loved me._

_Two months later, he was dead, too._

* * *

><p>I wondered if I could sink into the bed. Just fall straight through and disappear forever. I kept my eyes closed, focusing on breathing. Remorse and shame surrounded me. Carol came in for a little while, but when I remained unresponsive, she left less than an hour later. My fingers curled around the gold rose, a necklace I still wore, a necklace that had survived longer than the one who gave it to me.<p>

_Nolan._

I hadn't even thought his name in a while, separating myself so I wouldn't fall to bits. Here, in the first warm bed since the zombies came, I could let myself fall apart. I cried until my throat swelled, until my eyes were red and sore and swollen.

_Nolan, I'm so sorry. I didn't know…I didn't know…_

Maybe if I had eaten when I'd been hungry instead of rationing. Maybe if I'd taken better care of myself. Maybe if I'd noticed that _I was pregnant_—

Had I lost the baby because I hadn't eaten? Because I hadn't known? Because I'd slept with Daryl?

I made the mistake of opening my eyes on that third day. Daryl was sitting in the chair on the opposite wall, fast asleep by the looks of it. The door opened, stirring him, and a man in a sheriff's deputy uniform poked his head in.

"Daryl," he said quietly. "Hey, Glenn and Maggie are going to make a trip to the pharmacy."

"They need backup?" Daryl's hand dropped off the arm of the chair to rest on his crossbow. That thing might as well have been his fucking child.

"They said they didn't, but you can tag along anyway if you want." The man nodded towards me. I left my eyes lidded to give the appearance of being asleep. If they knew I was awake, they'd try to talk to me. I didn't have the energy right now. "Is there anything in particular you needed?"

"Gotta get some stuff for her. Doc Greene said she's gonna keep bleedin' for a while."

I closed my eyes. It was safer that way instead of trying to sneak a peek. Steady breathing. In and out. Rinse. Repeat.

"Look, Daryl." The man lowered his voice as if I were awake. "I don't really want to do this here, but—"

"You got somethin' to say to me, Rick, go 'head and say it."

"Andrea's pretty pissed you took in a stranger, especially now."

Daryl snorted. "We were all strangers at one point, weren' we, Rick? Why not her? She woulda died if Glenn and I hadn't stepped in."

"Her point is that we can't keep doing that. We have to start thinking about the survival of the group."

"One little harmless girly's gonna endanger us?"

"If she can't take care of herself, then we have to take care of her. We'll be constantly watching her back—"

"I thought that's what this damn group was all about." Daryl's voice was stiff. For a second, I didn't even realize he was defending me.

"Daryl, you're taking this the wrong way. I don't agree with Andrea, you know I'd prefer to save everyone we can, but I can she where she gets her point…and so can Shane and T-Dog. They've shut up about it for now, since she's…" The man, Rick, trailed off. "When she gets better, we'll just have to present her with a few options. If she has nowhere else, I'm not going to kick her out. Just something to consider before you get attached."

"Attached? Nah, not me, Rick. Got the wrong guy."

I suddenly wished I could see Daryl's expression right now. It was just too risky to open my eyes and look.

"Yeah, well, I just wish someone had given Carol this advice. She got pretty upset when Andrea was bringing this up to me. Dale seemed like he didn't want to hear it either."

"Girl must be sweet. Only explanation for why she can be liked by Carol and be almost useless at the same time."

I couldn't help it—I opened my eyes to look. Daryl was staring right at me. Our eyes locked, and then Rick's head began to turn and I let my lids quickly drop again.

"Do you want me or Lori to take watch in case she wakes up?"

"No," said Daryl slowly. "She'll prob'ly panic if she wakes and sees people she don't know. Just let her well enough alone until I get back."

I heard Daryl's boots on the wood floor as he stood and walked to the door. I checked through my lashes.

Rick grabbed Daryl's arm. "Why the concern for her?"

"Have you looked at her, Rick?"

Rick looked at me. He appeared haggard and worn, and I wondered briefly if he was as old as he seemed.

"I known her for a week. You ain't formally met her yet. Tell me you can look at her like that, in that bed, and not be concerned."

Rick said nothing.

"If you can't," said Daryl in a quiet voice, "tell me how you expect I can."

"Oddly gentle of you, Daryl."

"Shut it, Rick."

* * *

><p>I must have fallen asleep for real. It was dark outside now, the lamp still lighting the room in a warm glow, and Daryl was back at his post in the chair directly across from me.<p>

"Don't pretend to be asleep again, girly," he said. "I know you're up."

When I didn't say anything, he stood, pulling the chair over to the side of the bed. It was antique-looking, almost an armchair, and he lifted it with one hand like it was nothing, his arm muscles flexing.

"I didn't go with Glenn to the pharmacy. Chinaman told me they didn't need backup. He grabbed you some things for the bleeding."

When he realized I wasn't going to answer, that I was just going to stare at him until he became uncomfortable and left, he nodded.

"Went on another search for Sophia." Daryl reached into the bowl sitting on the beside table. The bowl was half filled with water, a washcloth folded over its edge, and he pulled out the washcloth and wiped his own forehead with it. He was still dirty and sweating. Evidently he'd come here first instead of bathing. Judging from the look on his face, he hadn't found Sophia. "Found an old abandoned house. It looked like someone'd been sleeping there, but I didn't find her."

He paused, looked down at his hands, then wiped his face again. With some of the dirt gone, he looked less wild. "There was a big fuss about the well. Geek fell in."

I glanced quickly at the water in the bowl, and he chuckled.

"Don't worry, girly, they have five wells. How ya feelin'?"

I closed my eyes and let my chest deflate as an answer.

"It's tough shit, girly. Sorry."

I wondered if he'd ever really been sincere when he'd said that word. It never seemed to sound like it. At least not when he said it to me.

"You can't stay holed up in here, though. I understand you're grievin', you're in pain, but this ain't the kind of world anymore where you can just sit around and mope. You gotta move on, you gotta—"

"Don't tell me," I began dangerously, my voice wobbling, "what I 'gotta' do. You have no idea what I am going through."

"To be fair," he countered, "you didn't even know you were pregnant. I'm sure the dad'll have no problems knockin' you up again—"

My expression must have given away how I felt at his words, because he stopped dead and stared at me. "Shit. He's gone, isn't he? That's why you're so upset."

"I don't want to talk about it—"

"That's fine by me, Jane. I don't do the emotional stuff." My eyes shot to him as he said my first name. "But my previous point still stands. Nothin' left to do but move on."

He just looked at me for a long while. I let my gaze wander.

"Why don't you go wash up?" I asked. "It'd be nice to look at someone that's clean."

"Funny. You didn't seem to care the other night that I was…dirty." He gave me a roguish smile, laughing quietly.

I narrowed my eyes, and he responded by wiping his face with the washcloth again. He let loose a sigh and my eyebrows raised.

"I admit, feels good to get the layer of grit off," he said.

I blinked at him, sitting up a little despite myself. "You look like Murphy."

"Who the hell's Murphy?" Daryl's eyes trailed down to where the towels covered my body. "Was he…" His expression was strange.

"Murphy MacManus," I added.

No spark of recognition.

"From _Boondock Saints_?"

Nothing.

"Don't tell me you've never seen that movie."

Nada.

I groaned, falling back against the pillow. "How can you even call yourself human?"

"Okay, girly, what the fuck is a Boondock Saint."

Something happened then that I could never explain. I laughed. Rolling onto my side, hand over my mouth, eyes closed, _laughing_.

"I don't understand you," Daryl grumbled, obviously offended by my laughter.

"Feeling's mutual." I stared at him long and hard after I stopped laughing, the features of his face more visible than ever with most of the filth gone. He really wasn't bad looking. He just had the same markers of weariness as anyone—bags under his eyes, bruises and cuts on his face, a tightness near his lips that came from not smiling very often. "If I promise to get out of this bed tomorrow, will you promise to take a shower tonight?"

He gave me the, _You're kidding, right?, _look. When he figured I was serious, he asked, "What does it matter to you if I'm clean?"

"I want to know what you'd look like if this wasn't an apocalypse," I said. "I want some semblance of normalcy. In this room, I can almost pretend the world didn't end. And then I see you. A walking testament to how fucked up everything is. You've got dirt on your face, blood on your clothes, and mud in your hair, and you've been wearing the same shit for the entire week I've known you. I want to see you in fresh clothes, with a washed face. Maybe even clean shaven. I don't want to look at you and think, well there's a man to run to if something's coming after me. I want to look at you and just think, well there's a man."

He sat through my whole speech, surprisingly enough, without a word until he was sure I was finished. "Why me and not the rest of 'em?"

"It's easier to pretend with them." For a moment, it actually looked like he was about to smile. "You're always the dirtiest, because you risk the most. And don't think for one millisecond that I'm not grateful you do."

The room was quiet. I was almost worried I'd slighted him somehow.

"I'll clean up tonight," he said finally. "But you gotta leave the room. Not just the bed. The _room_."

I took a deep breath. "Meet the rest of the gang?"

"If you want. Don't matter to me."

Fair enough. I held out my hand, and after shooting me an amused glance, Daryl took it. "Deal."

"Deal. Get some sleep." He settled back into the chair.

"Aren't you gonna leave?"

"And go where? Back out by Dale's RV in a tent? Nah, I'll stay right here, thank you." He folded his hands in his lap, legs sprawled out. "Unless you got a problem with me bein' here?"

A grin tugged at my mouth. "Don't matter to me."

* * *

><p>AN: i'm pretty proud of Jane's little speech near the end. **review** :)


	5. He's A Man

A/N: if you haven't seen last sunday's episode "Chupacabra", this may sortof spoil it. sooo i'd watch that episode first unless you're okay with kinda getting the gist of it. don't say i didn't warn you.

also, i have actually made a bow using the methods described here. you have to let the wood dry out or pick dead (but not rotting) wood, but that takes more time than they have. not drying the wood means it won't have the same kind of power.

if you want to make a bow, i don't take any responsibility if you get hurt :P

* * *

><p>The next day, I did as I promised Daryl I would—I left the room. It was extremely uncomfortable from the get-go. The living room, where a few people were, felt divided. I didn't see Daryl and as such became immediately out of place. I stood out.<p>

Glenn stood from his chair. "Jane, you alright?"

"Yeah, Glenn, I'm…better." I wasn't alright yet. "Where's Daryl?"

"He's in the bathroom." Glenn peered at me. It was weird to see him without the baseball cap. He looked less like a teenager when he wasn't wearing it. "Hershel was just…addressing the group."

"We've been invited to stay," Rick took over. "As long as we follow his rules."

I nodded my understanding, and then Rick stepped toward me. Glenn seemed suddenly nervous.

"Jane, this is Rick Grimes. His wife, Lori, is with Carl in the other room. Carl's their—"

"He's their son," I interrupted. "Daryl already told me." I smiled softly at Glenn. "You don't have to try and introduce me. I can find them myself." Then I kissed his cheek, a strange sense of melancholia wafting over me as I did so. "Thank you for picking me up the things at the pharmacy. I appreciate it."

He seemed surprised. "No problem. It's what we do in the group."

_You see that, Jane? That's what a group is supposed to do. _"I guess I'm not used to it."

Dale, the only other one in the room I knew, opened his mouth to say something, but I cut him off. "Thank you too, Hershel."

Hershel had lost the kindly look I'd seen as he treated me. "You're very welcome, miss."

I walked out in a fast-paced stride, as if I could outrun the tension. The pure beauty of nature—unaffected by the catastrophes we had all seen—struck me first. I thought I was going to cry again.

"Who're you?"

I turned to the new voice. It was hoarse, with a thicker Southern accent than even Daryl, and it belonged to a man with a shaved head and wide dark eyes.

"You part of Hershel Greene's group?"

He had a look in his eyes like he really wasn't present. The look of someone who'd seen or done something so terrible and traumatic that every time their eyes closed, they saw it behind their lids. I should know.

"No," I said. "My name's Jane."

"Oh." His eyes darkened even further. "You're Jane."

I felt my brows draw together in a frown, but before I could respond someone came up behind me. I heard their heavy footsteps, accompanied by a silky drawl saying, "Don't try to start somethin', Shane."

Shane's eyes narrowed. "Cut your losses, Daryl. I'm not gonna sugarcoat it for her. You made a mistake in bringing her along."

He stalked away, and I turned my attention to Daryl. "You didn't have to intervene—" _Gyuh. _I froze.

Daryl fidgeted under my slack-jawed stare. "Quit that, girly. You're the one who insisted I bathe—"

My thoughts were stuck on a loop. _THAT'S what a man looks like. Oh dear Lord._

Those sentences repeated over and over. Apparently he'd taken me literally when I'd said that I wanted to look at him and think 'there's a man'. Because holy hell. _There _was a man.

Nolan flashed to the forefront of my brain but I pushed him, his memory, and the guilt away, focusing instead on the man in front of me.

Daryl certainly cleaned up well.

He had on a crisp button down olive-green shirt, a wonderful color on him, and the sleeves on this one were actually intact. He wore clean jeans that were just tight enough, his hair was washed and combed and a little mussed, and despite the fact that he hadn't shaved, the stubble just added to the look instead of detracting. I felt strangely ill at ease in my attire, which Maggie had been kind enough to replace so I wasn't wearing the bloody jeans. It was a shame, really—they'd been comfortable jeans. My new clothes were a little small, the shirt a tank top that I wasn't used to wearing.

How could he look so…delicious after everything that's happened? I asked him to clean up, not to look like a damn Calvin Klein model!

"If it's that bad, I'll fuckin' change," he grumbled, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

"No," I protested, a bit too quickly. "It looks fine." _Looks a whole hell of a lot better than fine._

"Well, you left the room. You even went outside." He grinned at me. "So I s'pose we both kept our promise."

"Yep." _Damn voice squeak. How do I clear my throat without seeming obvious?_

His grin transformed into a smirk. "You alright, girly?"

"Fine, fine." I noticed Shane over Daryl's shoulder, stomping up into the house, and any flutters Daryl's appearance had given me faded. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Why the hell not?" He shrugged, but it was obvious that he was suspicious.

"Teach me how to not be useless."

* * *

><p>"Alright, first off, knowin' how to shoot a gun is useful, but ammo's limited and they make a lotta noise."<p>

We were in an open field. I sat cross-legged on the ground, enjoying the wind and the grass, in a way trying to fill the emptiness I felt with the fact that not all things beautiful had been destroyed.

"So you're going to teach me to shoot your crossbow?" I tried on a smile for size. "Hate to tell you this, but that only helps me if you die first."

"Smartass."

"All the time." My response was hollow.

"No. I'm gonna teach you to shoot a bow, and then I'm gonna help you build one."

* * *

><p>Spending the afternoon with Daryl became…surprisingly fun, even considering what he was teaching me. When I tried to carve the bark off of the mulberry branch he retrieved for the bow, and I held the knife too awkwardly, he chuckled at my discomfort and corrected me. His calloused hand curled warmly around mine, but I shoved him away, insisting I could do it myself. The whittling job on the branch was awful. He sent me back to the house for string, and when I came back I saw he had fixed it himself.<p>

"Hey!" I said, insulted.

"If I'd waited for your skills ta improve, girly, we'd be here for weeks."

He built the bow on his own, cutting notches for the string, explaining every step so I'd know how to do it in the future. "It might not look as pretty," he said, "but you'll eventually have to make a replacement. This ain't made to be permanent, but it should be sturdy for a good while." He tested it out before handing it to me, pulling the string back.

"Don't we need to make some arrows for it?" I frowned.

"Hold your horses, Jane. You need to get familiar with it first 'fore I give you any actual arrows."

"How do you know how to fire a bow?" I asked him.

"My brother an' I went hunting a lot."

Figuring that was the only explanation I'd get from him, I took it with a shrug. I stood up, taking the bow from him and imagining it had an arrow in it. Drawing from my vast movie knowledge, I pulled back on the string and—

"Ow! Fuck!"

The string rebounded, whipping my hand, and leaving an immediate angry red line. I dropped the bow as I swore, recoiling on instinct. Daryl was smiling again as he watched me.

"Why did you hold it like that?" he asked me.

"That's how they do it in movies," I grumbled. "Sorry to say that's my only experience with much of life."

He bent over and picked up the bow, shirt falling just slightly to reveal tanned skin that could probably melt butter—

_Stop it!_

This was getting difficult. How the hell did he expect me to concentrate?

_It would be fairer if I had the same effect on him._

"Here." He handed the bow back. "Hold it like this." He placed my hands in their proper places, and then lined himself up behind me. "Here," he said again, handing me one of the arrows from his crossbow. He slid it into place, his breath heavy on my neck, his large hands on my shoulders. He let one drift to my arm, guiding me, and then his other hand moved downwards to my hip.

My breath was frozen in my chest. I didn't dare to inhale while I waited for his hand to stop moving.

"Spread your legs a li'l."

I gawked. "Daryl—"

"To improve your stance," he clarified.

I did as he said, shifting. He was pressed so tightly against me that when I shifted my stance, I brushed against something unmistakable. My teeth clamped down on the inside of my cheeks. He had to have known that I'd felt it, yet he didn't move.

"Daryl," I said again.

"Not gonna apologize for bein' a man, Jane," he practically purred, his voice low in my ear.

I shivered slightly as he used my first name again.

"Put your hand here…and release."

I did so just as his hands let go. The string released and I flinched, expecting to get hurt again, but it didn't strike me this time.

"Get some sticks," he instructed, stepping back. He handed me his knife. "Shave the bark off and then whittle the end so it's sharp."

"Where are you going?" I held his knife numbly as he started back up to the house.

"To change."

"Why?"

He turned back to me and grinned. "Can't get this shirt dirty. Need to save it for a…special occasion."

"Where are you going that it would get dirty?" My eyes narrowed of their own accord.

"Rick's got us searchin' in grids for Sophia." His grin widened slightly, before he looked away from me and it left his face. "By the way, try to get birch. For the arrows? It's the strongest 'round here."

I didn't bother telling him I didn't know what birch trees looked like. "Going on your own again?"

"Yup." He must have seen something strange in my expression. He stopped moving towards the house and instead turned back to me, gaze narrowed. "Problem, girly?"

"Nope." My voice was tight. "If you want to go out alone and get yourself killed, that's no business of mine." I began to stalk away, feeling unreasonably angry.

"Where ya headin', girly?"

"To get some fucking branches." I swiped the knife angrily in the air, hearing the whoosh. "Just go."

It was completely irrational that I get mad at him, but seriously, did he just lack brain cells? Obviously going out on his own was a recipe for disaster, and he seemed to prefer going alone, which just meant he was testing his luck—

_I don't care, _I thought. _I can't care. I can't care about anyone ever. Not until everything settles down and people stop dying left and right. Not until then._

* * *

><p>I had scraped my way through three makeshift arrows. None of them were very pretty, and I knew as soon as Daryl got back, he'd tell me they looked like shit and then he'd smile. He'd show me how to do them properly, and then he'd fix the three.<p>

I'd gotten more worried as the day wore on. The rest of the groups had returned, but Daryl hadn't. Dale told me not to worry, that Daryl could take care of himself.

I wasn't concerned he couldn't take care of himself. I was concerned that he wouldn't be able to take care of the walkers.

I stepped into the RV, taking a short break from the sun but not wanting to be confronted in the farm house. Carol was inside, sewing something, and the inside of the Winnebago had been redecorated by the woman for her daughter's return.

_At least she's staying hopeful._

My eyes caught something white. "That's pretty, Carol."

I was talking about the flower, a Cherokee rose, that was propped up in a beer bottle filled with water. Her gaze followed mine, and she smiled softly.

"Daryl brought that back for me after he found the abandoned house," she said, and my whole body stiffened at his name. "He said it was blooming for Sophia."

I opened and closed my mouth like a fish out of water. Before my mind connected to my vocal chords to say something intelligent, I heard Andrea on the roof of the RV shouting, "Walker! Walker!"

I ran outside, my mind going immediately to, _Where did I put that bow?_

Rick, Shane, and T-Dog ran out towards it, Shane carrying a crowbar. Rick instructed Andrea not to shoot, and with good reason. The sun was in an awkward place in the sky, and I was willing to bet Andrea, looking through the scope of the rifle she was holding, was having trouble seeing clearly. As the three men ran to the so-called 'walker', however, they stopped.

_Why are they just standing there?_

I jogged forward a little cautiously, just until I could get a better view of the walker. As I did, I saw a ripped and bloody shirt with the sleeves missing and a crossbow being dragged behind.

_Daryl?_

No sooner had I made that realization than I heard a shot from behind me. _Andrea, Rick told you not to._

But that became secondary, unimportant, when I watched Daryl recoil at the shot and fall.

"No!" roared Rick. He turned around to scream it at Andrea. "No!"

My eyes were glued to the spot where Daryl had been just a second before. In a minute, he'd stand up and laugh at Andrea's poor aim, and everything would be okay.

Everything would be okay if he would just _stand up._

Except he didn't stand up. Rick kept shouting, Andrea was running, and Shane began hoisting him up. He was limp, so very limp in Shane's grasp, and as Rick joined Shane on Daryl's other side, and his feet dragged on the ground, I felt cemented to the spot. The only one in the group who had really ever taken care of me. The only one after Nolan to ever really take care of me.

And he wasn't moving.

T-Dog crouched down, coming up with, "Hey, guys? Isn't this Sophia's doll?"

_He was still looking for_…

It was that moment that I was convinced that no matter who would try to tell me that Rick was the leader, no one would ever have my respect other than Daryl. That rough-and-tumble country boy had been taking care of people better than I'd even heard of Rick doing. I watched numbly as Rick and Shane attempted to support him as he stayed limp in their arms.

_Don't die yet, Daryl. Don't you dare._

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><p><em><em>A/N: **review please**. :)


	6. Someone's Feeling Better

A/N: I feel like forever since this has been updated...please forgive me! and enjoy the next installment.

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><p>I trailed behind in a daze as Shane and Rick hefted Daryl into the house. Rick said something about the bullet only grazing him, but despite my relief I felt an ache in my stomach. When they brought him into the room where I'd been, when Hershel came in to tend to him, I hung back. I let the door close in my face and stepped away numbly.<p>

He was patched up a few hours later, but when the door opened I kept my head down.

"He'll be fine," said Rick, and there was a collective sigh of relief.

Not from me. I stood up and walked out the front door.

Carol found me on the front steps not long after that. I felt disjointed as she said, "Dinner's ready."

I knew I shouldn't be turning down a meal, especially when I didn't know when I'd get one next, but for the first time I just wasn't hungry. I told her so and she gave me a sad smile.

"Daryl's going to be okay," she said. "He heals quick."

"I know." And I did. I knew he'd be okay this time. The problem was, what about next time?

"You should go in to see him. He's awake now—"

"No."

She frowned at me, trying to get a good look at my expression in the dimming light. I stared straight ahead. "Why not? He stayed with you when you were—"

"I know he did."

"Then why—"

"Because," I burst, "I'm sick of getting attached to people and then losing them! I plan on leaving at some point, Carol, sorry to burst the bubble that everyone's a big happy family. I don't belong in this group, I'm an outsider, and if I go in that room and see him like that now, it'll just be harder to leave."

"You don't have to go," Carol spluttered. "Stay with us—"

"I'm too much of a burden to stay, and I won't be able to watch someone I care about die again. I'll lose it, Carol. At least if I'm on my own—"

"If you're on your own, you'll die!"

"So be it." I sighed.

Her lip trembled when I finally looked at her. "Do you want to die, Jane?"

"No, of course not. But I'd rather it be me than one of you. If Daryl keeps doing this, he'll end up getting killed and I can't—" I cleared my throat. "Andrea and Shane want to get rid of me anyway."

"Stop talking like this." Carol stood up, suddenly firm. "I don't want to hear any more. Come to dinner."

"But—"

"Jane, please don't argue with me."

So I didn't. I sat through dinner quietly, staring down at my plate. I ate to be polite, but I tasted nothing.

"Anyone know how to play guitar?" asked Glenn cheerfully, breaking the tense silence of dinner. "Dale found a nice one."

"Otis knew," said the woman closest to Hershel. Patricia, I thought. "He was very good."

"Yes, he was," Hershel agreed stiffly.

It seemed like everything was about to return to silence, and Glenn's face filled with defeat. As he began to turn around—and I'll never know what possessed me—I said, "I know how to play."

Glenn's expression lit up like a Christmas tree as everyone turned to look at me. "Want me to go get it? You can play it now!"

I looked back down at the table. "Maybe later, Glenn."

Carol excused herself to bring a plate of dinner to Daryl, and after clearing my own plate I slipped out. The guitar Glenn had mentioned was resting against a rocking chair, and he was right—it was a nice one.

I picked it up cautiously, strumming a chord with a small smile. I missed the nights when my mother would sing as I played guitar. I missed when my brother and I formed a band in high school with Jimmy Phillips and Carter Marsh, even though Carter was an ass and Jimmy _grabbed_ my ass. I just missed it all.

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><p>Everyone had gone to sleep by the time I finally decided to go into the room. I'd fought with myself for hours, was still fighting, but my legs had taken a life of their own and now here I was in a dark bedroom staring at a banged and bruised Daryl.<p>

He stirred and I instinctively went for the door. My shin hit the corner of the bed, and when I swore on reflex, I heard him say, "Who the fuck's in here?"

"The ghost of Christmas past."

There was silence for a little while. "I don't get it, girly."

"I figured."

"Carol said you weren't gonna stop by." _He makes it sound like a house visit. _He was still faced away from me, probably because his left side was bandaged.

"I wasn't going to." That was true. Looking at him like this did exactly what I said it would: it made me sad. I wanted to run away, lock up his smiles and his eyes in a safe with my memories of Nolan, and then sink the safe in the ocean. "Afraid I was going to say 'I told you so'."

"Hey, I made it back just fine, didn't I?"

"Just fine?" I repeated numbly. "From what I gathered, you fell on your own arrow and then almost got shot in the head. None of that would have happened if you'd just let someone go with you."

"Someone like you?" he asked.

"Why not."

"I aim to keep you outta the danger zone as long as I can, girly."

My hands clenched into fists at my sides. "I never asked you to."

"That don't make a difference."

I half-stomped around to the other side of the bed to force him to look at me. I was shocked to see that he was smiling.

"You just hate people tryin'a take care of you," he said. "But you're afraid of takin' care of yourself. You're fucked, girly, unless something changes."

Something did change. I gave him a once over, taking in the damage, and then whispered in realization, "You went through all of this for a doll?"

"Sophia's doll," he corrected. "Now we got a better idea of where she could be and Carol's got somethin' from her little girl."

"And what do you have to show for it?" I asked quietly.

He shrugged a little, wincing. "Some kickass scars?"

"Don't you like being the hero?" I frowned. What kind of man didn't want to be a hero? _The same kind of man who refers to himself as a 'good fuck'_.

"Dunno. Makes me itchy."

_It makes him uncomfortable?_

"People start lookin' at me different," he went on. "I don't like that."

"Do you want to be rewarded at all?" I had kneeled by him at some point, and depending on his next answer, my mind had already formed a strange plan. Strange because I didn't know why I was thinking about that of all things.

"Depends on the reward," he said with a chuckle.

My hand slid under the sheets. His eyes locked into mine, and I realized he looked wary.

"Now hold on, girly—"

He stopped abruptly when I grasped him. His eyelids fluttered and a thrill went through me. In that one movement, I was in total control.

"Jane." His jaw clenched as I started my slow pace. "Wait—"

"I'm sure you could use this." I sped up to quash any further protests, and he let out a groan. "Just enjoy your reward, hero."

I admit it made my breathing a bit jagged when he bucked his hips into my hand, his eyes closed. He was hot, and came surprisingly quickly, spilling into my hand.

"Fuck," he breathed. "What do I get if I actually _find _Carol's little girl?"

I was armed with a clever remark in response, but he kissed me, swallowing my words. I pulled away first and said, "No."

"No what, girly?"

"No…that." I stood up.

"Relax. Just a…thank you for my reward." He was smirking, but his cheeks retained the flush from his orgasm.

"I'll see you in the morning," I grumbled, scrambling to make a hasty exit.

* * *

><p>That morning was my turn to shower. I sighed contentedly as the hot water ran down my skin. Finally, <em>finally<em>, I would feel human. It was amazing what changed when you stopped feeling dirty.

"How are you doing?" asked Dale as I walked outside. The air stung my skin slightly—I'd nearly scrubbed myself raw.

"The bleeding's stopped," I said, knowing it wasn't an answer. "Sooner than I thought it would."

Andrea was sitting on the porch steps, and when she heard me, she stood. "How's Daryl?"

I shrugged. "How should I know?"

Her eyes narrowed and Dale intervened. "Jane—"

"No. She's the one who shot him, if she wants to know how he is she can go in there and ask him her-damn-self." There was no anger, no annoyance in my voice. I was just stating facts. I brushed past her down the steps.

Carol and a woman I assumed to be Lori were hanging laundry on a clothesline by the RV. Carol smiled as I introduced myself to Lori.

"I'm glad your son's going to be okay," I said. "Lot of shit's happened, hasn't it?"

Lori nodded and then said, "And I'm sorry to hear about…"

I shrugged again despite the pull in my chest. "I'm okay."

"The father…?"

"He died a few months ago."

"Oh." Now both Carol and Lori were looking at me with sympathy. "Husband?"

"Not married."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

Carol hung up a little shirt that had to belong to Sophia. "Jane, can you check on Daryl for me?" She remembered our conversation from yesterday, she had to. She was doing this on purpose. "Please."

* * *

><p>I stood in the doorway and stared at him, arms crossed. He was lying on his back, a sign that he was feeling at least a little better.<p>

"A visit in the daytime? I'm flattered, girly."

"Carol asked me to check on you."

"So?"

"She said please."

He laughed under his breath. "You got a lot to learn, girly, if ya still agree to do somethin' just 'cuz they say please." He watched me carefully before adding, "You scared to come in?"

"They put up a force field when you weren't looking." He didn't react. "Never mind." I took a deep breath. _He's only temporary. Nothing is permanent anymore. Remember that and you'll be fine._

"How about your wounds, girly?" he asked, looking pointedly at my thigh.

"Don't even feel it anymore." That was only half a lie. It hurt, but I could run on it now without limping.

"The bleedin'?"

"Stopped."

I checked to make sure he hadn't bled through his bandages. As I leaned over, he curled his hand around the back of my neck and pulled me down, smashing our lips together.

"Daryl!" I meant it to be a protest, but to my dismay it sounded more like a whimper.

"Your little stunt last night drove me crazy," he murmured against my mouth.

His kisses were hypnotic, hot and insistent, but I pulled back from him before I could let myself be consumed. "I thought it was a one-time thing? Never happen again, never speak of it again, hit it and quit it, wham bam thank-you-ma'am—"

"Never said it wouldn't happen again." He looked confused. "Where'd you get that idea, girly?"

"I assumed."

"You should quit doin' that." While one hand against my neck kept me from leaving, his other slipped under my tank top. "Don't tell me you haven't missed it."

"Fine, I won't tell you."

He was just a bit insane. Always, from the moment we met. Not to say that my pulse didn't quicken at his offer, because trust me, it did.

He growled at my response. "Smartass."

"All the time." _Didn't we do that once already? _"Daryl, let me go."

Another growl.

"If you don't, I won't be able to close the door."

This seemed to surprise him and he let me go. When I'd closed the door, I turned and said, "You've got to hurt like hell. How can you want to…"

"I'll tell you afterwards. C'mere."

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><p>I stayed mindful of his side. He was mindful of my leg. His hands grabbed my hips in a vice-like grip as I lifted myself up, like he thought I'd fall off. When it was over, he laughed into my hair and said, "Now why would ya think I wouldn't wanna do this as often as possible?"<p>

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><p>"Well?" asked Carol when I returned to the RV. "Is he feeling better?"<p>

I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep a straight face. "Much better."

Carol brightened. "Good."

She began to speak again, but I tuned her out. The romp with Daryl—more specifically, the _second _romp with Daryl—had confirmed something in me. I'd made up my mind; tomorrow morning, before anyone woke up, I would leave.

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><p>AN: as always, pretty please with a cherry on top **review**.


	7. Look Alive, Sunshine

A/N: oh poor Jane...you never think anything through, do you?

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><p>"<em>Have you been practicin' your aim?"<em>

"_Yeah."_

"_Gettin' any better?"_

"_Dunno. Little bit."_

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><p>Oddly enough, I felt better in the open field where I could see everything. I'd made an old golf bag from Dale's RV into a quiver for my homemade sharpened sticks—because, really, they didn't look like arrows—and now I hefted it higher onto my shoulder. A gun from their stash was tucked, just in case, into the waistband of my pants. The rising sun tinted the sky pink and orange, and I wasn't far past the tree line when I saw something.<p>

I crept forward. Covered by a small spattering of fall leaves and accompanied by a disgusting smell was the half-eaten body of a woman. I froze, but she wasn't moving. I went to step around the body when it suddenly flashed out, grabbing my ankle and pulling me down with a snarl. I screamed loudly, my "quiver" spilling sticks onto the ground. My hands fumbled, trying to grasp the gun, as I kicked at her, simultaneously trying to get her off and avoid being bitten.

My foot hit her head, her skull soft and pliable with decay, and she was knocked backwards. I found one of the sticks and gripped it tightly. I was crying now, struggling to breathe, as she reared up again and I lifted the stick right between her eyes—

The squelching sound as she was impaled made me want to puke. I scooted backwards until my back hit a tree, eyes never leaving the walker. It didn't move again. My chest heaved with each breath, and my thoughts were screaming, _Go back! Go back to where it's safe!_

_Where is it safe? Where has it ever been safe?_

_With Daryl._

I bit my lip harshly.

_Really, Jane, all of this attempting to run away from emotional shit is gonna get you killed. You can be emotionally intact and dead, or you can take a chance of getting hurt but being alive. This is just stupid._

It was never safe with Daryl. Not from zombies, not from anything. He was just a man. He would die like all the others…and if I had stayed with them, if he kept trying to protect me, he would die a lot sooner.

Call me selfish, call me anything you want, but I couldn't live with that on my conscience.

Not after the way Nolan died.

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><p>It took a few more hours of pointlessly wandering in the woods to realize I had rushed into leaving too quickly. This fact became painfully evident the closer it got to nighttime as I remembered I hadn't brought a sleeping bag, tent, or any camping equipment—I had also failed to realize that, since I was alone, I probably wouldn't be able to sleep.<p>

I sighed heavily. _Okay, think of a solution. _I kept walking for a little while longer, unable to come up with anything, but by the time the sun had begun to sink below the horizon, I had found a tree with a branch low enough that I could jump up and grab it.

I climbed up a few branches higher, tying the shoulder strap of the golf bag to it. In the pockets of the golf bag were the only rations I'd been able to snag. I munched on a piece of jerky, telling myself I wasn't hungry so that the food would last longer. My growling stomach wasn't fooled.

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><p>"<em>So who was…."<em>

"_The dad?"_

"_Yeah."_

"_You're going to keep dwelling on this, aren't you?"_

"_Sure am."_

"_Why? It's not like you're ever going to meet him."_

"_He was important to you at one time, wasn't he, girly? So I wanna know who he was."_

"_Anyone would think you were jealous."_

"_Unh."_

"_His name was Nolan. He was three years older than me."_

"_Did ya love him?"_

"…_Yeah."_

"_How'd he die?"_

"_Walkers."_

"_Damn bastards, ain't they?"_

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><p>I made it through that first night taking short power naps—only three, because after the third one I nearly toppled off the branch, and my rapidly beating heart served to keep me awake for the remainder of the evening.<p>

That next morning, as I dropped from the tree with a sore back, I heard a twig crack. Immediately, I pulled my gun from my waistband. I would not try to fuck around with my bow right now. It was early, I was cranky, and if one of those damn zombie bastards tried to bite me today, they'd get a bullet in the fucking head.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't my little sunshine."

The muscles in my hand tensed. Walkers didn't talk. The man who emerged from behind a tree was most certainly not a walker, but I got the same feeling of angry nausea as if he had been.

His eyes found the gun. "What are you going to do with that, Jane, you simpleton? I never taught you to shoot for a reason."

"Shut up, Owen, and stay where you are."

Owen Bishop raised his eyebrows at me and belted out a deep, rumbling laugh. "I remember a time when you used to call me 'Daddy'."

"Long time ago," I said through clenched teeth.

My father was exactly how he'd always been. Thick black mustache peppered with gray, thinning coarse hair, angry grey eyes, dangerous strength hidden under a lean layer of fat, at least four guns visible on his person—yup, that was my dad. He was alone as well, something I noticed with a small twinge of glee.

"What happened to your group?" I asked.

"They fell behind."

My eyes narrowed. Cold, heartless, son of a—

_Bang!_

I could've laughed, but the gunshot had scared me a little. I hadn't even realized that I'd settled my aim and squeezed the trigger. When I saw the blossoming red stain on his dirty white shirt, I felt even angrier.

"You ungrateful bitch," he snarled, more animal than human. I was reminded of why I didn't call him 'Daddy' anymore. "You shot me!"

"I missed."

He clasped a hold of his right shoulder, trying to stem the bleeding. "You didn't miss, you fucking shot me!"

"I was aiming for your head." At least I hadn't missed him entirely. That was something, I guess.

"You always were a terrible shot."

My eyes narrowed, beginning to shake in the throes of my rage. How dare he. _How dare he _still try to put me down. I was the one in power now. I was the one with the fucking gun. How _dare_ he.

"I wonder," I said slowly, "if I aim for your stomach, what will I actually hit?"

His gaze widened ever so slightly. Yeah, you asshole, you're damn right I'm serious. "Have it your way, sunshine. I'll be on my way." Then, however, he smiled crookedly and said, "It's just like you, Jane, to not seek retribution against me. You're soft. That's why I didn't want to bring you with us. Grant insisted, but I knew, I knew you'd only bring us down."

His hand was slowly moving as he spoke, reaching for something at his side.

"You honestly think I don't know you well enough to know where you hide your guns, Owen?" I whispered.

He gripped it, bringing it around to face me, and there was a second gunshot. _Bang!_

"Missed me again, sunshine."

I gritted my teeth. "Stop calling me that!"

"Why? That bother you, Jane?" He laughed, aiming his own Colt .45, his favorite gun, at my head. "That's a might nice gun you got there, Jane. That's not the one I left you is it? Whatever happened to that one? I doubt you could have shot your way out of the mess you were in last time I saw you."

"You made sure of that, didn't you, _Dad_," I growled. "Leaving me only one bullet in the gun, you sneaky—"

"I thought that was very kind of me. That way you could have just shot yourself. A merciful option, if you think about it."

"I wouldn't have needed mercy if you hadn't shot me in the leg in the first place." We were staring each other down, neither moving, except for the shaking of my inexperienced gun hand. "How dare you call yourself my father."

"We both know I never wanted you. Having a girl was useless to me." He said it so casually, as if we were chatting about the weather. "You were especially useless after you fell in love with the Buford boy. You made _him_ useless. It wasn't easy getting rid of him, but—"

"Getting rid of him?" I heard voices, shouting, a jumble of noises I couldn't decipher, but my field of vision had narrowed to my father and then turned red. "Nolan was killed by walkers, I saw—"

"You're very slow, Jane. You saw him bloody and mangled with a gunshot to the head, and I told you that he'd turned into a walker. I didn't know you'd really _believe _me, sunshine."

Time moved very slowly as my dad spoke. I heard his words, but it took a little bit for me to fully register—

"You son of a bitch."

My eyes stung with tears, thoughts hazy, and as the voices got closer and closer I fired my gun again. The shot hit the tree harmlessly, and someone from behind grabbed me around the waist. My rage-filled mind told me it was a walker, but my kicking and struggling was less of an effort to get away from it and more of an effort to strangle my father.

"You son of a bitch! _You son of a bitch!_" I was sobbing, shouting hysterics, and the walker was holding me close and stroking my hair. It wasn't a walker—it was Daryl. "_Son of a bitch!_"

"Love doesn't have a place in this world anymore, Jane. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you learn to survive."

"_Son of a bitch!_ _You killed Nolan. You fucking son of a bitch!_" My voice was hoarse, sobs overtaking any intelligible words, and I stopped struggling against Daryl. I didn't wonder yet how he'd found me, I didn't wonder yet who else was there.

He was soothing me, whispering against my ear, and saying, "It's alright, it's alright, Jane."

Except nothing was alright. Nothing would ever be alright again.

Because the more I thought about it, the more I realized…my father was right.

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><p>AN: as always, reviews are pretty. i like pretty things :) **review please.**


	8. Kill Or Be Killed

A/N: tonight's episode made me cry, but i won't spoil it for those who haven't seen the episode yet. there are no references to the ending. no spoilers. rest easy :)

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><p>I stared emotionlessly at the gun, turning it over in my hands. Shane was pissed I'd stolen it from them, but so far no one had asked for it back. Good thing too. I was disconnected enough to shoot them at this point. I was back. Back at the farmhouse, back with Rick's group, back where I didn't want to be, back with <em>my father<em>.

They'd brought him with us. Hershel was probably treating his gunshot wound, the gunshot wound _I _gave him, the wound that was only a small fraction of what that hideous man deserved.

Especially since the bastard had just admitted to me that he'd killed—

"Hey, girly," came a quiet Southern voice.

"Go away, Daryl." I tried to make my tone harsh, tried to snap at him, but I was just so tired of everything. Plus, he had a way of wearing me down even with only a few words.

"Can't get rid of me that easy."

He sat down next to me with a wince, and a wave of guilt washed over me. He was shirtless, fresh gauze on his side with blood dotting it. He had stressed his own wound when he restrained me in the woods.

That was another thing.

To my extreme embarrassment, I had apparently been going in some kind of loop. Daryl, after realizing I was gone, had immediately set out with Rick to find me. Daryl tracked me in no time flat, a pitifully easy trail to follow.

Plus, we had shared a moment in the woods. I was emotional, hysterical, and for him to see me in that state was unacceptable. My conviction was even stronger. _I needed to leave._ This time, I would just have to plan it more, plan it better.

"What happened to 'don't go out there alone'?" Daryl asked with a snicker. "Sounds mighty hypocritical to me."

"Please go away?" I tried instead.

"Nope."

My gaze narrowed, and he chuckled.

"Didn't I tell you? You got a lot to learn if you do somethin' just 'cuz someone says please." He gave me a serious look. "Who's that guy ya shot?"

"My father."

Daryl blinked a few times. "Why'd ya shoot 'im?"

"Payback. He shot me."

"He…" Daryl, I could tell, was fighting to keep his jaw from dropping. "Shit."

"Yeah." I rubbed my temple with a sigh. He looked me up at down, and then put his hand on my thigh. At first I thought he was propositioning me again, but then I realized it was right over my gunshot wound. "Daryl…"

"It's okay." He smoothed back my hair again, and I felt myself leaning into his calloused hand.

"It's not okay." I stood abruptly. "I can't do this, Daryl. I can't."

"Don't have to be a bitch about it," he grumbled.

"I think I do."

* * *

><p>I walked. Just walked. When I saw someone coming, I turned around and walked faster in the other direction. I couldn't deal with any of it. Not Andrea and Shane wanting me gone, not Hershel's sudden cold attitude, not Carol's crying, not the separation between the two groups of survivors. Definitely not my father.<p>

When Lori, however, approached me at a jog, I hadn't the energy to outrun her. "What is it?"

"Um." Her eyes were red, like she'd recently been crying, and her hand was shaking as she raised it to swipe her hair behind her ear. "I-I know that we don't know each other that well."

_At all, actually. You hardly bother to talk to me. Any of you._

"But…the baby." She cleared her throat. "Would you…if you hadn't had a miscarriage, would you have wanted it?"

"Wanted the baby?"

Lori nodded. "In this kind of world, would you have wanted it?"

I thought about that for a good long while as she waited for my answer. What kind of question was that? On one hand, it had been the only part of Nolan I had left in the world. On the other, it would mean caring for another, helpless human being when I could barely take care of myself. The more I thought about it, the more I thought, _Why is she asking me this?_

"You're pregnant, aren't you?"

Another tremor went through her hand. "Please, you have to keep this between us. I just wanted to know, I thought you'd understand since—"

"Amazing," I grumbled. "A miscarriage can define me, even in a world like this. Even in _hell_, all you people know me as is 'that girl who had a miscarriage'."

"That's not what I…"

"I know that's not what you meant. But it's true, isn't it? That's how you all see me. I'm just that weak, stupid little girl who had a miscarriage and now your group can't seem to get me out of your hair." I stepped closer to her, making sure she got what I was saying. "If you wanted me gone, you should've just left me out there. I was doing fine."

"Wait—" Lori reached out for me as I walked past, and for a second I felt bad.

"You don't even know my name, do you?" I asked quietly. Her hand dropped, and I kept on walking past her, the disgust evident on my face.

* * *

><p>I was outside the horse stables, sitting on the ground behind a hay bale. Daryl was trying to saddle a horse, go off on his own again looking for Sophia, and I nearly laughed. It was a cycle. He'd come back injured again, having found <em>nothing<em> of that poor lost probably-dead little girl. Carol would cry, Rick would come up with a new plan, and Daryl would go out again the next day. The monotony was enough to remind me of daily life before the shit hit the fan.

I heard his whole exchange with Carol, heard him call her a bitch, and thought to myself, _Why're you so confusing, Daryl? _

Then I heard Glenn talking about the barn. A barn full of walkers. The more I thought about it, the more I realized the convenience of it all.

* * *

><p>I had been right. Hershel had patched up my father. Now, that smug bastard was sitting on a godforsaken rocking chair with a fucking smile on his ugly fucking face—<p>

"Can't sleep, sunshine?"

It was night. I'd been able to avoid everyone. Now, I was oddly…calm as I contemplated the idea of killing my father. "Angry at me for shooting you?"

"Very. Stupid question, Jane."

"I have an idea then." I clenched and unclenched my fists a few times before adding, "We can't do it here, too close to the house. Come with me to the barn."

He followed behind me, and for the first time in my life I knew I had the upper hand. Soon he wouldn't be able to hurt me at all. Ever.

"How is this going to work, sunshine?"

My hand twitched. "I figure right now we're on even footing. You shot me, I shot you. Once we get to the barn, I'll give you a gun." I held it up to show him. "We both have one bullet. Fair fight. We stand at either end and fire at the same time."

He laughed. "That's hardly fair," he said. "Unless your aim has drastically improved in the last twelve hours."

I clenched my jaw against the stream of hateful words I wanted to shout at him. All in time. I just needed to keep my cool for a few more minutes.

Once I led him through the small opening of the hay loft, I knew he would notice the walkers. I heard them, the hissing, the snarling, and for a second fear paralyzed me. What if this didn't go as planned? What if—

"What the hell is that?"

I pushed the gun into his hands. "One bullet. Don't waste it." Then, before I could think any more about it, I pushed him. Though he fumbled with the gun, he had managed to grasp onto the ledge with one hand.

"Bitch! Let me up!" I knew he had seen the walkers, could hear the walkers, because the panic was seeping into his voice.

"How's it feel?" I asked, my voice quiet and…oddly calm. "Feel familiar?"

"What the fuck are you talking about, you crazy—"

"Seems familiar to me. Gun with one bullet in it. Group of walkers. The only difference is, I haven't shot you in the fucking thigh. Feel familiar yet, _Daddy_?"

"Let me up!" The walkers were gathering around his dangling feet now, pawing at him. "For God's sake, Jane, _let me up_!"

I was starting to scare myself. Could I do this? Could I go through with this? Of course I could. But could I live with myself afterwards?

"_Jane!_"

My eyes stung as I dropped onto my stomach and grabbed his wrist. I wasn't a killer. I wasn't him. I couldn't…

"That's a good girl," he said as I began to haul him up. "Always did listen to your daddy, always believed I had your best interest at heart. Even when I shot you." He suddenly laughed. "You're so stupid, Jane."

Something in me snapped, disengaged, and it was as if I was watching someone else. I was watching, standing by, as a girl who looked exactly like me stopped lifting my father to safety. I watched as the girl let go.

Suddenly I snapped back to myself, and my father was landing hard on his feet in a barn full of hungry walkers.

"Jane! Jane, help me!" He looked up at me with panic in his eyes.

_Should've thought about that before you hurt me, Owen._

"Can't help you anymore. You're on your own."

"Jane!"

My voice felt like it didn't even belong to me as I whispered, "This is for Nolan."

I couldn't watch as the walkers devoured him. I left, making it halfway back to camp before I vomited—for what was it, the millionth time?—into the bushes.

* * *

><p>The next morning, when they started asking where Owen had gone, Daryl inexplicably looked to me.<p>

"You know anything about it?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Why would I know anything?"

"He seemed to know you pretty well." Shane's gaze was narrowed in my direction, his tone accusatory. "And one of our guns is missing. Besides the one you took."

I shrugged again, looking Shane straight in the eye. "Dunno. He probably just took off."

"Why didn't he take back his guns?"

"Maybe he couldn't find them."

Shane was most certainly glaring at me now. "Whole think stinks to me."

"Don't know what to tell you."

But Daryl was looking at me like he knew. Like he _knew_ what I'd done to my father. So what if he did? Did it matter? What would they do, throw me out of the group? His eyes met mine. He knew exactly what I'd done. He'd realized from the moment that Owen had gone missing. Did I? Did I realize that I'd killed—

_It was just survival, _I thought. _Kill or be killed._

Right. Kill or be killed.

* * *

><p>AN: a bit of character development here. hope you all enjoyed. **review please!** :)


	9. Insert Pop Culture Reference Here

A/N: WARNING: does contain slight spoilers for Sunday's mid-season finale. please don't say i didn't warn you.

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><p>It was right around sunset when I let myself cry inside the safety of the RV. Daryl had spoken to me only once since this morning, and his simple sentences still echoed in my mind.<p>

"_You changed. I don't like it."_

My elbow knocked over a pile near the door. "Shit," I hissed. As I bent down, scrambling to pick it back up, I noticed the bottle of Southern Comfort. I picked it up slowly.

_One drink wouldn't hurt._

* * *

><p>It was hours later, the bottle half empty, when the door to the RV opened. I didn't know who was coming in, nor did I particularly care.<p>

"Y'know," I slurred, my voice sounding slower than my lips were moving. "Haven't had a drink in couple years."

"Years, huh?" It was Daryl. _Of course it was_.

"I used…to party a lot." I downed another swallow. "A _lot_. Couldn't stand being home with Dad being the way he was. Then Mom got sick and I stopped drinking."

"Why're you drinkin' now?"

"Why the hell not?" I offered him the bottle as he sat opposite me at the table, but he shook his head to decline. "Suit yourself."

He took the bottle from me after a few more swallows. "I don't think that's the kind of comfort you want, girly."

"Who knows?" I snapped. "I've changed, haven't I?"

I don't remember the rest of it. It passed in a blur, reminiscent of my party days, but when I woke up alone in the morning with a blanket and no clothes, I knew I'd slept with Daryl again. I got up and dressed myself, and when I went outside, head pounding and stomach shifting, everyone was doing their own thing. I found Lori, apologized to her shortly, and asked where Daryl was.

"With Carol by the pond," she said. She gave me a suspicious look that blossomed into a smile. "Are you and Daryl…"

"No." I knew what she was going to ask me—_Are you and Daryl together?_—and the answer, from what I gathered from him, was no.

* * *

><p>I found him a few hours later after downing some pain pills for my hangover headache, just as he and Carol were coming back. I'd left the group when Shane started rambling about clearing out the barn and Hershel took Rick on some hush-hush mission out in the woods.<p>

"Do you like Carol?"

It sounded like such a childish question when I said it out loud. Like we were in high school or something and I was passing him a note. I wasn't even sure why I asked, or if the answer mattered. _That's a lie. It matters._

"Like Carol?" Daryl repeated. "The hell do you mean 'like Carol'?"

"I know you care about her, I know she cares about you," I said, licking my lips. "I know you've risked a lot looking for her little girl. What I want to know is—"

"Oh, I know what you wanna know," he interrupted, standing from where he was sitting against a tree. "Which I find odd for two reasons. One, 'cuz you're the only one in this group I slept with, and two, 'cuz you made it pretty damn clear you don't want nothin' to do with me."

"You wouldn't understand—" I avoided his gaze, my headache returning.

"Like hell I won't understand!" he shouted. _Why are you so angry? _If he had something in his hands, I'm sure he would've thrown it. "Cut the shit, Jane, I think we understand each other better than anyone else in this fucking camp." He grabbed my face, forced me to look at him. "You think I don't understand losin' someone 'cuz I'm a big tough country boy? You think I don't understand wanting to kill my pop? Huh? You don't know shit about me, Jane."

"What use is it knowing someone in this world?" I asked. "No one's permanent. One way or another you'll be taken from me—"

"Sounds to me like you've already given up without even botherin' to ask what I want."

"Can you give me a reason not to give up?" I asked exasperatedly. "Please, I'm begging you, give me a reason to wake up in the morning."

"How 'bout enjoyin' the time you got left?" he suggested in a gruff voice. "When was the last time you just _enjoyed_?"

I couldn't think of one.

"Tell you what," he said. "One day, I'll tell you all about myself."

"What if you—" I bit my lip. _What if you die before then?_

"You think about 'what if' too much, girly. Stop thinkin'. Start enjoyin'."

There was silence as I absorbed his words. I thought he was going to leave. Instead, he still stood in front of me, broad shoulders moving up and down as he breathed after yelling at me, his eyes boring into mine, and suddenly I wanted him to kiss me.

"How'd it feel?" he asked. "When you killed your old man?"

"Empowering." My voice cracked. "At first."

"At first?"

"I didn't…want to be like him." I looked him in the eyes and he stared, stern, right back. "I didn't want this world to change me."

"Bit late for that now, huh?" He shook his head. "Thought you were different, girly."

Daryl sounded oddly…bitter, and without another word he walked away. Well, more like stomped. That's when I realized that the answer to Lori's unasked question wasn't 'no'. It was 'never'. Especially now. I'd never let someone get as close to me as Nolan had been, and at this rate this thing with Daryl was becoming dangerous.

Not to mention the fact that I probably didn't have a choice in the matter. As far as I could tell, Daryl resented me for what I did to my father.

_Why, Daryl? You're a gun-toting racist who shoots people—walkers mostly, but still—all the time. What's so wrong about what I did?_

"_Thought you were different, girly."_

My heart stuttered slightly. Was he…Could he be right?

_Well, you haven't made a pop-culture reference in nearly a week, you just had a drink for the first time in two and a half years, and you killed your dad. I dunno. Does any of that entitle change?_

I guess some things hadn't changed. I was still a smartass.

* * *

><p>It was just a few hours later when I heard shouting. I recognized Shane's hoarse, thick twang, heard a mix of other voices, and headed cautiously towards the source. Everyone—and I meant everyone, the only one I couldn't find was Dale—was surrounding the barn, watching as Shane passed out guns before running like a madman and breaking down the locks that held the barn doors shut.<p>

Hershel had fallen to his knees. T-Dog, Andrea, Glenn, and Daryl were all holding guns, aiming it at the doors.

If they killed the walkers, wouldn't Hershel make them leave? Make all of us leave?

"Daryl," I said, stepping forward. "What's going on?"

"We're clearing out the barn!" Shane yelled. "I'm not sleeping one more damn night with these things here!"

He strode up to the line Daryl and co. formed, aiming his own gun with a furious expression.

"Daryl, don't." I hesitated, and then touched his arm. His head snapped to me. "He's wrong, this isn't the way to handle it. Won't Hershel—"

"Step back, Jane," he said coldly.

"Daryl—"

"Step back."

"Now who's being hypocritical!" I demanded.

He sighed, and seemed to soften a little bit. "Still a spitfire, girly." The walkers slowly began to filter out of the barn. "Just get behind me."

Shane fired first. Andrea was nearly grinning as she followed his example, but Glenn was struggling a little to hit their heads. They all went down fairly quickly. When the last hissing, slow zombie emerged from the shadows, the shooting abruptly stopped. It was a little girl, with short hair and a rainbow on her shirt. I could understand their hesitance—hell, I wouldn't want to shoot a little girl—but what I didn't understand was the sudden appearance of tears in Andrea's eyes.

"Sophia!"

My heart sank with Carol's cry, and I spun just in time to see her running for the girl. Daryl reacted quicker than me, dropping his gun and grabbing onto her. Lori was crying, holding onto Carl and telling him not to look. Shane, the tough guy, wasn't moving. I watched Rick as he strode forward, his gun to the little girl's head, and it was ages before he pulled the trigger. A little part of me died inside as I flinched at the girl's limp body falling beside the other walkers.

Carol was weeping uncontrollably onto Daryl, who had now fallen to the ground in his attempt to hold the weak-limbed woman. My gaze gravitated slowly back to the barn doors, and the unthinkable happened.

My father walked out.

Crawled, actually, would be a more accurate term. His arm had been torn off at the shoulder, there were chunks of skin missing from his neck, and nearly all of the flesh was missing from his legs, so they dragged behind him lifelessly as he pulled himself forward with one arm. His face, however, had been surprisingly spared by the flesh eaters. Maybe he'd died and gone cold before they reached his face.

The atmosphere of the people around me changed in an instant. Andrea turned to glare at me. Daryl cursed under his breath. Glenn stared, slack-jawed, and uttered my name as a question. Dale had showed up behind the group at some point during the shooting, and he didn't say anything to me. Shane lifted his gun, shot my father in the head, and then whirled on me with a snarl.

"What _the fuck_ was that?" he asked slowly, dangerously.

"That," I said, "was, at one point, a man named Owen Bishop."

"How—"

"Simple." I licked my lips. _Cat's out of the bag. _"He must have fallen into the barn."

"Must have." Shane didn't buy it for a second. Not that I really expected him to. "Stop shitting me, girl. You know exactly what the fuck happened to him."

"You're right." I met his gaze back. "I do."

Glenn stepped toward me, shock filling his features. "Jane? You killed him? Why?"

"I'll answer that," I said, "but first I have a few questions of my own. For all of you."

Shane took another menacing step in my direction and I stepped back, pointing at him. "Hold on there, tiger, keep your damn distance. Before you all fucking _condemn _me, because I can see it in your faces, let me clear the air."

It didn't look like anyone was going to hear me, but Rick inhaled slowly and said, "Alright, speak your piece."

None of them were on my side. Daryl had been at one point, so had Dale, so had Glenn, so had Carol. Carol was too upset to pay any attention, her face holding a look of betrayal, Glenn still looked like he didn't believe it, Dale was stunned, and Daryl…Daryl was Daryl.

"First question," I said. "Which of you actually know my last name?"

There was silence until Andrea said, "You're kidding me right?"

"No, I'm not kidding, and none of you know the answer." _Daryl does. _He did, but for some reason he wasn't speaking. "I'll inform you, since some of you don't even know my first name. Bishop, Jane Bishop."

I waited patiently as it sunk in, and then, just for added emphasis, I said, "Owen was my father."

* * *

><p>AN: **review**? :D


	10. Jane's Piece

A/N: shorter in word count, but the paragraphs are longer. hopefully this answers some questions. and disclaimer, it was kindof stressful to try and keep all the canon characters...well, in character. mah. i hope everyone's still satisfied!

* * *

><p>The uproar was immediate. It was what I expected, shouts of 'how could you kill your own father', Glenn asking what Owen possibly could have done that made him deserve being walker chow—Dale even went so far as to say, "But you just don't seem capable…"—and so on and so forth, but for some reason hearing them made me angry. What right had they to judge me? They didn't even bother to know my name!<p>

"Let me explain something to you," I said, interrupting the din of voices, "about Owen Bishop. He was the kind of man who kept a gun supply in his basement. The kind of man who drank just a little too much, not enough to make it obvious that he was drunk but just enough to claim amnesia the next morning when accused of all the rotten things he did the night before." I took a deep, steady breath. "He was the kind of man…" And here, my fists clenched. Daryl gave a slight nod, which to me was more support than I expected, and I pressed on."…who would go out drinking with his buddies while his wife lay dying of cancer."

"You're lying," Shane accused.

Rick looked sidelong at him and muttered in that quiet tone of his, "No matter what kind of man he was, no one deserves that fate."

"My dead lover, dead brother, and aching gunshot wound would beg to differ," I replied dryly. "See, all those things I told you, I ignored. I ignored when he came home late. I forgave him when he fought with my older brother. I told my mom that Dad couldn't come see her because he was working, when he wasn't fucking working. Now when the world went to shit, I couldn't ignore those things anymore. He didn't want me with him when he and my brother and my brother's best friend set out after the apocalypse. He was angry without his booze, and for the beginning, Grant, my brother, put up with the brunt of it. He'd been doing it my whole life to try to protect me, while I sat back and forgave a _monster_. When Grant died, his best friend, Nolan, was the only one I had left. He loved me, I loved him, and my father saw that. What did he do?"

I locked my jaw against the tears, breathing in and out. Just focus on breathing. Lori was listening to me, Rick was listening, Carol, Daryl, Glenn, Maggie, Dale—but Andrea's eyes were unfocused, and Shane was scoffing at my words.

"He took Nolan out hunting for food, left me with a gun and the supplies. He killed Nolan and came back and told me that he'd been attacked by a couple of zombies and that Nolan hadn't made it." I was rambling, I knew. "He took me to see Nolan's body because I _demanded_, I _wanted _to see him, and it was horribly mutilated and—"

"How do you know he did that?" asked Rick.

"That little bastard _told _me, he _told me_." I wanted to throw something. Stomp. Punch Shane. _Something_.

"Oh God," whispered Lori.

"I can do one better! For the next two months it was just me and him, and he bitched at every turn about how I couldn't take care of myself, but did he teach me to shoot one of the dozen guns he carried with him? No. So after two months of _bitching _and _moaning_, we're in the woods when about two dozen walkers start in on us. He starts unloading rounds into their heads, we start running, he knocks down a good many of them, but they're still coming, and I start worrying that there's too many and that we're going to die." My sentences lost their form, lost their punctuation, and I was rambling again. "Then Owen looks at me and tells me that he's out of ammo."

From the look that crossed Shane's face, I know he realized that Owen was lying. When he checked out the bag of guns Owen had, he'd probably noticed that the guns were all loaded and there were extra clips in the pockets.

"So he hands me a gun. 'There's one bullet left in it,' he says, 'Run as fast as you can, I'll lead them away,' he says, '_I'll come back and find you when it's safe_', he says! And what does he do when I start running? _He shoots me in the leg so they follow me_. You're trying to paint me as some heartless villain, well what the fuck was he?" I didn't wait for an answer. "I knew he wanted to get rid of me. When he was here, when I heard about the barn, it just seemed so…simple. I told him if he followed me there that I would give him a gun and we'd face off. He followed me, and when we got to the hayloft, I pushed him." I didn't stop despite the looks of horror and shock on some of their faces. "I tried to save him after I did it. I started pulling him up, but then he…he called me stupid and I just…let go."

I spun around, looking at each of them. "What would you have done? Huh? And don't any of you dare try to tell me you'd forgive him because that's a fucking _lie_."

"Why'd he have to die for it?" asked Andrea. "He was your father."

"He had never been a father to me," I snapped.

Suddenly, Rick's little boy started to speak. "He hurt you." He looked at Andrea. "He was hurting her. She didn't want to get hurt anymore."

None of the group really knew how to respond to that. Lori just stared at her son, stroking back his hair.

My eyes settled on Rick and asked, "Can any of you really say you're any better than me?"

"We take care of our own," said Shane, striding forward and grabbing my arm, tightening until I was sure there'd be a bruise. He was, of course, the first to react after I'd finished speaking.

I stared at him incredulously. "Take care of—" I tilted my head back and laughed. "Is that what you think you've done, Shane? Taken care of your own? You just got every last one of us kicked off of Hershel's land, the only place anyone here felt safe. You really call that 'taking care of your own'?"

Shane backhanded me, knuckles colliding with my face harshly and sending vibrations into my cheekbone. Carol cried out, alert to what was happening but still raw from Sophia, but Daryl held her fast. Rick stepped forward and pushed Shane away from me. Actually, all of the men had stepped forward on impulse, and Daryl's face was strangely feral with anger in Shane's direction. The hit had sent me sprawling to the ground, and I reached up to wipe blood from my lip.

"Hey! _Hey!_" yelled Rick. "Knock it off, Shane! That wasn't necessary!"

"Necessary?" Shane repeated. "Did you hear what she—"

"I heard her." Rick looked to me, suspicion still slightly evident on his face. "There's no reason to assume she's lying about Owen. We didn't know him, we don't know her situation. She felt he was a danger to her. I don't feel right sending her out on her own because she did she thought she had to in order to survive."

Shane growled.

"You remind me of him," I said, meeting his furious gaze. "He used to hit women, too."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Carol flinch instinctively and remembered her telling me once that her dead husband used to beat her. For a moment, I thought Shane was going to try for my throat.

"Look, I'm not saying that her dad wasn't a motherfucker," said T-Dog, shrugging slightly, but with a wary eyes at me, "if she's telling the truth. I'm just a little uncomfortable with the fact that she's actually okay killing her own flesh and blood."

"I told you, he was never a father to me—"

Then, Rick said, "Don't give us a reason to kick you out of our group. You keep your distance for a while, and when everything with Hershel gets sorted out, we'll have a talk."

_Yes fucking sir,_ I thought bitterly. My eyes drifted back to Daryl. He'd released Carol, who was currently weeping into Lori's shoulder, and he looked conflicted. Then his expression evened out into one of stern resolve.

"Rick," he said. The other man turned. "I'll take responsibility for her."

"I'm not a fucking _child_," I hissed at him.

"Shut up."

I stared at him. _What?_

Rick nodded once. "Okay, Daryl."

"Daryl—" I grabbed at his arm as he and the other members of the group walked away. I could tell from the looks they gave me who believed my story—Dale was having a particularly hard time, and Andrea and Shane were unchanged. Glenn, however, shot me a look of sympathy and a small smile, and Carl turned around to look at me once as Lori led him and Carol away. That boy had probably just saved me from getting thrown out.

"Hold it, Jane," Daryl said, shrugging off my grip. "Just…lemme figure a few things out."

I watched his retreating back. No one was really okay with it, but at least there was someone who believed me. And Daryl was…He had succeeded in thoroughly confusing me. Making me his responsibility? What did that even mean? _What just happened?_

* * *

><p><em><em>A/N: was Jane's explanation accurate? hopefully! **review** please!


	11. Changed For Worse

A/N: major confession coming up. and a major cliffhanger. warning you now. enjoy :)

* * *

><p>The first night after that incident, I didn't sleep. I stayed awake and thought about Daryl, how his words had hurt me, about Nolan, and how thanks to the circumstances of his death I'd probably never be happy again. I'd be better now if I'd never loved him. I probably wouldn't have killed my father. I wouldn't have slept with Daryl. I would have cared that Andrea hated me.<p>

Life would be so different if Nolan and I just hadn't happened. Has anyone ever said that? Looked at a past love and thought, "They ruined me. Being with them ruined me."

Because that's how I felt.

If I hadn't loved Nolan, I'd probably be giggling with Carol right now over how cute Daryl could be. I'd be blissfully unaware of how to shoot a gun or what it meant to survive. I'd be extra helpful and obedient and nice, trying desperately to improve Andrea's opinion of me.

Did it matter who I could've been?

It did to me.

It did to Daryl. He saw in me who I used to me, who I could've been, who I almost was. And he wanted that girl.

Never mind that that girl wouldn't have slept with him in the first place.

He wanted _her_.

That's when I realized, at this point it didn't matter how far away from this camp I was. The damage had been done. I had feelings for Daryl. It was too late. I hadn't run away quickly enough.

I wanted him to hold me, kiss me, tell me I mattered.

I never wanted to feel like that again after Nolan.

* * *

><p>It was hard to believe how comfortable I was with Daryl's advances now, how <em>accepting<em> I was of them. Dale had given me a tent out of the RV, and Shane had, quite rudely, pointed out where I was allowed to pitch it. As I was doing that, a Daryl-shaped shadow passed over me. I straightened, the tent finally set up, put both hands on my hips, and waited. He didn't even have to ask. Within a moment of That Look coming into his eyes, I was in his arms on the floor of my tent.

I'd grown used to this. His skin on mine, his mouth on mine…basically, his everything.

This time was rougher. He must have been angry with me—for good reason, I guessed—because instead of going over every inch of my body until I was on fire, he entered me swiftly. A few rough thrusts and a groan against my shoulder and he was finished, rolling off of me and panting. I laid there, arms out at my sides from where I'd dropped them away from him, as he dressed and left without a word. I found myself missing the way he held me after sex. It was supposed to be like this—quick, no strings, no expectations, no _cuddling_ afterwards. It never had been before, he'd always been strangely clingy in his post-sex daze, and I never thought that I would miss that. But I did. He couldn't just flip a switch and suddenly pull back from me now.

_Haven't you been telling yourself for days and days that you don't want a relationship with him? You can't get hurt again, right? So why does this bother you? He's pulling away just like you wanted._

That was true. Why did I suddenly want more from him? _Oh my God…I'm actually falling for him, aren't I? That's what this is. I don't just care about him. I actually—_

_Deal with that later. Deal with getting dressed and facing him first._

I dressed slowly, and when I exited the tent, buttoning my jeans, Daryl was chopping wood. He was shirtless now, having discarded it somewhere on the ground, hefting the ax with a flinch of pain from his side.

"Should you be doing that?" I asked.

"Don't complain," he said shortly, letting his arm drop the ax to the ground. "This is for you."

"For me?" I took the ax from him when he tried to lift it again. "Why?"

"You're on your own now, girly, didn't you get that?"

"I'm not—"

"This here's the closest you'll ever be to bein' alone, at any rate, 'cuz I ain't lettin' you go off again." He scowled at me, grabbing the ax back. "Rick handed down his word. You can travel with us, but you gotta keep a distance. That means campin' separately, separate food rations, separate supplies. You're technically in the group, but you're on your own…if that makes any sense."

"So…this is…what?" I gestured at the growing wood pile.

"I told you. It's for you. You need to build a fire to cook food, sterilize water, that sorta thing. I figure I'd cut you some wood."

"Thought you just said I was on my own?" Then it dawned on me. "Oh, God, you're doing this because I'm your 'responsibility', aren't you?"

He didn't say anything, just stared at me with that same stern expression.

"I don't want to be somebody's _responsibility_. For Christ's sake, stop looking at me like that!"

"I'm just tryin'a take care of you—"

"I don't want you to take care of me!" I could feel tears springing to my eyes. "Remember what happened to the last person who tried to take care of me? He died! I can _handle_ myself, thank you very much, _without_ your help!"

"You say that, but when I left you alone, you pushed your old man into a barn of walkers," he snapped. "Sorry if I took the fall with Rick for that one."

"Don't guilt me for that, I didn't ask you to—"

"No, Jane, you didn't ask me to, you _never _ask me to," he said. The volumes of our voices were rising until we were almost shouting. "I do it anyway because—"

"Because what?" I demanded. "You care? Could've fooled me after that little wham-bam moment back there."

His lips pulled back in a snarl, and he dropped the ax, storming up to me until our noses nearly touched. "Think of it as revenge for what you make me feel every day, when I don't wanna feel any damn thing at all!"

His words slammed into my chest like a hammer, stealing the breath from my lungs, and he kept the hits coming.

"How do you fucking think I feel, huh, girly? _I _was the one who tried for you, _I _just wanted a good fuck, but—"

"You _held_ me after we had sex, you hypocritical ass," I shot back.

"Yeah, I did," he deadpanned. "'Cause I wanted to. I wanted to hold you, never let you go back out and do somethin' stupid. I ain't no good with words, girly, so the only way to show you I cared was then, in the moment. I was always gentle with you, wasn't I? But you ignored it, ya left first after every damn time, so _excuse me_ for givin' ya a taste of your own damn medicine—"

"Because I thought that's what you _wanted_!"

"When've you _ever_ bothered to ask what the fuck I wanted?"

"_Fine_!" I screamed. "What do you want, Daryl? What the fuck do you want?"

Instead of answering, he shook his head. "I don't gotta put up with this shit."

"What shit? I'm _asking_!"

"But you don't really care to know the answer, do you? You're only asking so I'll stop fuckin' shoutin' at you."

"Well, gee, and here I thought you knew how much I sincerely love the shouting," I bit out at him. The argument, the physical distance now between us, pained me, but for some reason I couldn't stop, even when I felt my throat going raw, even when I knew if it kept up like this we could never go back. Eventually someone would say something that we couldn't take back.

"Why're you so pissed at me about Owen?"

"When I met you, you were naïve. A fresh peach in a world full of rotten fuckin' apples. Death, betrayal, blood, violence. You weren't affected by any of it. You still referenced movies as if people actually gave a damn 'bout Hollywood and that shit now. You killin' your old man…I don't think you were wrong. But the peach fell outta the tree and got bruised on the way down." He shrugged his shoulders aggressively. "I hoped you'd always stay up there, away from the rotted mess on the ground. Didn't want you on our level."

"I'm not as pure as you're making me out to be. Sorry to be a fucking disappointment."

His eyes narrowed. "Why didn't you just stay out in the woods?" he snapped.

"That's funny, coming from you, because I seem to remember someone chasing after me and dragging me back! Wonder who that could've been. But that's okay, I know the reason you did it. You wanted to get laid, right? A good fuck? That what you wanted?"

"You know damn well that ain't why I brought you back."

"Oh, right, because you _care _about me. Right? That's why? With all the mixed signals I've been getting from you—"

"You're one to talk about mixed signals, Jane! You claim to want somethin' detached, but you like me, you care, just admit—"

"Well I hate to tell you this, Daryl, but it doesn't matter how I feel, or how you feel, because my bastard pitiful-excuse-for-a-man father was right about one thing: love doesn't have a place in this new world."

I stared at Daryl as I spoke, the rugged man, the strong man, the opposite of Nolan, the opposite of everything that I thought defined a man. He wasn't outright sensitive. He wasn't abstract. He was there and in your face and animalistic, and if I wasn't positive this would end in disaster, I would throw myself at him right now and say forget the whole thing, you're right, I like you.

And then, still overwhelmed in the heat of our argument even as I calmed down, Daryl shouted back, "That's just too fuckin' bad, Jane, 'cause I already love you."

There it was. The words we could never take back.

I expected him to backtrack. To rewind.

"The hell d'you think I put up with your shit for?" he continued, a whole lot quieter now. "The weird things you say, the jokes I don't get…and I swear, you make me angry on purpose when you get bored or somethin'. Seems like everythin' you do, you're doin' just to get under my skin. Any sane person woulda jumped ship hella long time ago. You asked what I want. Fuck, girl, I want you."

For a second, I couldn't breathe. _Yes, yes, yes!_ screamed my heart, while my mind was crying, _No, no…_ "Daryl. You know I can't…If that's how you feel, we have to stop. There has to be a separation. No more helping me, no more showing up, no more talking, no more sex—"

"What for?"

"Love makes people do stupid things," I whispered. "Before, stupid things would be miniscule. Missing a day of work, annoying your friends, making a fool out of yourself in public. Now, stupid things get you killed."

"Are you gonna promise me that _you_ won't do stupid things?" He tried a small grin.

"No."

"Smartass."

I didn't respond the way I usually did to this, and the grin dropped from his face as he realized I was serious about my previous statements. "This really what you prefer, girly?"

_No. _The sudden voice appeared in my head unwanted. This was for the best. _It's not what you want. _I don't care. I want to live. I want him to live. _What good is it being alive outside if you're dead inside?_

I didn't dwell too long on that. Instead, I lied through my teeth. "Yes."

His shoulders suddenly dropped. "Then who am I to argue?" He walked away, trekking back towards his own camp.

The nagging voice in my head returned. _You love him._

When the realization hit me, I cried. I wasn't sure if I was crying because I'd forced him away, or because I'd broken my promise never to love again. Whatever the reason, the tears faded after a while, and not long after that, my times with Daryl had joined my time with Nolan as a memory.

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><p>AN: does that mean she and Daryl are over? *gasp* and she knows how Daryl feels! **review** pretty please :)

and you have to wonder if Daryl really means 'love' in the way that she's taking it..hmmm...food for thought.


	12. They Never Hit Women On TV

A/N: not too much of a change...yet.

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><p>Rick was trying to reason with Hershel. It wasn't going well, but at least he was trying something. I didn't pay much attention to the group anymore, not after they separated themselves from me, not after Daryl…<p>

Daryl. Damn Daryl. Damn him to the deepest depths of hell.

I often went out on walks, not near the woods, but in the fields where I could easily see a walker coming just in case. The labor was minimal, mainly because I let myself go. I hadn't bathed, I ate only enough to stave off hunger, I hardly slept…and when I did sleep, my dreams were plagued with Daryl. It began the same every time. Nolan was stroking my face, and the second I began to wonder how he was still alive, he would morph into Daryl, who would go from gently touching my cheek to kissing me with a fiery passion. I would wake with my knees weakened and goosebumps over my skin.

Carol came to me once, bringing me some food, but when I didn't speak to her, she left crying. She never returned, mainly because when Shane found out he screamed at her so loudly that even I could hear him.

It was pretty clear that Hershel wasn't going to let us stay. The only questions now were, when would he make us leave? Would Maggie go with us, seeing as she'd connected with Glenn? Would Hershel start loading up his barn again, filling it up with live walkers, after we'd left?

I still remembered my last conversations with the group after my so-called exile. They'd been digging graves for the dead walkers—not Shane, he couldn't be _bothered_ to dirty his hands for these _un-people_—Lori and Daryl and Glenn.

I'd looked over the bodies once, twice, saw my father, saw little Sophia, and stepped up to Lori. "Got an extra shovel?"

She'd stopped digging to stare at me for a little while.

"If you don't have one, I can take over when someone needs a break."

Wordlessly, Lori handed me hers, and when I took it, she covered my hand. Her gaze was fierce when she responded slowly, "I am so sorry about what happened to you."

Then she dropped her hand and walked up to the house. Glenn had been conversational, claiming he didn't believe I could have killed my father in cold blood.

"I believe you," he said. "He must've deserved it."

"It doesn't matter if you believe me, if anyone believes me." I bit back my sarcastic tone. "It's the truth."

He'd nodded like he understood, but could he? Could he really?

Even Daryl hadn't understood. He had pretended, pretended damn convincingly, but in the end he hadn't.

If he had, he wouldn't have made this separation so painful for me.

He was doing it on purpose, of that I was sure. He purposely put himself in places where he knew I'd be. There were four wells on the premises with drinkable water—yet, when I went to draw some up, going to the farthest well for a reason, he was there. He didn't speak to me, didn't look at me, not ever, but he was always _there_.

_Look at me,_ he was saying. _I'm doing damn fine without you. I can still function without you. Ha ha._

I tried to come up with a plan for my departure from the group soon after that moment at the well. I was still trying now as I sat in my tent, staring at the pad of notebook paper I'd secured from Lori. I was trying to be strategic about this, drawing from my vast knowledge of television and movies, but all I could think of was old _M*A*S*H_ reruns and the movie version of _The A-Team_. Neither of those really helped me in this situation. At all.

It was almost nighttime. I'd lose the light soon. I glanced up from the notepad and debated building a fire. The pile of wood Daryl had cut for me—had it really been only two days ago?—lay unused at the edges of my little camp. No. I would go to bed with the sun. I didn't need a fire.

The notepad currently had a list written on it. It was my list of possibilities, of places to go, places to escape to. I'd started out with a little over two dozen, but as I began running the names through my mind and eliminating places that were probably too far gone—if Atlanta was any indication, a city or suburban area was out of the question—the list was rapidly shrinking. I was down to about five now. The more I thought, the more it occurred to me that despite the list starting at two dozen, only two options were really plausible.

Option 1

I remembered Nathaniel once, telling me about a lake house his parents owned down by Old Hell Lake. Seeing as they were dead now, and the house was pretty far off the beaten path, the house was a pretty good option. He'd told me all about it, where it was, how we'd get there, and now that I thought about it, I realized he'd been planning on taking me away from my father once we got close enough to the lake house. He'd been planning on us stealing away in the middle of the night, living at the lake house together. The realization made my chest ache, but I pushed it away. Not now.

Option 1: Lake House

Option 2

I knew if I traveled to the coast that there were islands, barely populated islands, that were probably safe. On the Georgia coast alone, I knew, there were three islands—Sapelo, Cumberland, and Wassaw—that were only accessible by boat or plane, and therefore isolated. Walkers couldn't run a boat or a plane, so if I went to one of those islands, I'd have to deal with the walkers already there, but once they were gone I'd never have to worry about walkers again. I'd been to Sapelo only once before, on a trip with my mom and Grant when Mom was still healthy, and I'd seen the little community of Hog Hammock, with its small general store and two little churches—

Option 2: Sapelo Island

I dug out the map I'd borrowed from Hershel's house—alright, I stole it, but Rick borrowed it so often nowadays that Hershel wouldn't even notice it was gone—and used my pencil to mark the general location of where the farm was.

_Let's see, Old Hell Lake…Sapelo Island…_

Having then marked off those places as well, I paused for a moment. Daryl had told me about Rick and the group going toward Fort Benning. After a second's hesitation, I marked the fort too and then sat back to observe.

My heart leapt and fell at the same time.

The lake house was literally _on the way_ to Sapelo Island. It was practically perfect. I could stop by the lake house, see how safe it was, and if it wasn't, head right on past to the island. Or, even if the lake house _was _safe, I could stay there for a while and then I'd have a secondary location that wasn't more than a few days' travel away.

The downside?

Fort Brenning was on the opposite side of the state. When we left Hershel's farm, it would mean going in the completely opposite direction as the group. I'd never see any of them again. I'd be really, truly alone, on my own, no Daryl to save me, no nobody. Was that what I wanted?

And, at the same time, had they really given me much choice?

I packed up the map and shoved it in the golf bag I was still using. We were closer to Fort Brenning than we were to Old Hell Lake. If I wanted to survive, I'd have to plan very, _very _carefully, because I was going to be alone for a long time before I came anywhere close to a possible safe haven.

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><p>I didn't know if it was the lack of sex or just the lack of general human interaction, but I was more high strung than ever. Rick had called me over to join them, now on the third day of my exile, as he addressed the group.<p>

My leg was bouncing almost uncontrollably as I took the only available space on the ground next to Daryl—it was like he'd _planned _it, just to be fucking cruel, _Daryl wouldn't do that, you know this hurts him too_—and I was more short-tempered than I had been in a while.

"Hershel has asked us," he began, licking his lips, "to leave."

Nobody spoke. Apparently they'd all resigned themselves to this fact. Except for—

"That's horseshit," said Shane. "Where are we gonna go?"

I snorted rather loudly. "Funny how you're concerned about that now, didn't seem to occur to you when you were gunning down Hershel's friends and family—" I had to stop when Daryl elbowed me in the stomach rather harshly.

"Fort Brenning—"

"Fort Brenning was your idea, Rick, and it's brought us nothing but trouble," Shane snapped. He stood, getting angry again in his classic unstable way, and then he whirled on me, pointing his finger with the expression of a madman. "And what 'bout our resident murdering bitch, huh? You gonna tag along with us, riding on our backs like a fuckin' parasite?"

"Shane, that's not fair," started Lori weakly. Everyone was so tired of dealing with him and his toddler-like temper tantrums, it seemed, that it was easier just to nod their heads and say, _Yes, Shane, okay, Shane, whatever you say, Shane._

"No, no, it's okay," I said to her. "Murdering Bitch is a cute nickname. I love it." I glared at him. "To answer your question, King of the Assholes, I have a plan to go my own way when it's time to leave the farm. When's Hershel kicking us out?"

Everyone was staring at me, slack-jawed. Rick recovered the quickest, answering me with a stammering, "Uh, he said he'd give us a little time to rest and restock—"

"You're leaving?" asked Carol. "Is this because we were so cruel to you? Jane, I'm sorry, you must know, I never meant—"

"That's not what's important, Carol," I said, as gently as I could. "I'm not going to be a part of this group. I have other places I can go."

"Where?" she furrowed her brow. "Were you heading somewhere before—"

She stopped. Before. When Owen and Nolan and Grant and I were our own group. When Owen found those few campers after Noland and Grant…

"We hadn't been going anywhere specific," I answered. "There's a house that Nolan told me about, isolated by a lake, and it should be safe…"

Daryl stood up, leaving the group without so much as a word. I followed him with my eyes, so focused on his reaction that I didn't even realize my sentence had been trailing off. If anyone noticed, they had the courtesy not to say anything. Except, with Shane, I was beginning to notice a trend…

"Good fuckin' riddance," he said. "Don't think you're stayin' just 'cause you got a thing for Daryl—"

I'd sprung to my feet even before he was finished with his sentence. Rick, Carol, and Lori all seemed about to jump to my defense—_did they all know?_—but I beat them to it. "You are just as much of a bastard as my father. Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Comparin' me to him, huh?" he snapped, immediately getting in my face. "You gonna get rid of me too, like you did to him?"

His shoulder bumped mine, and I pushed him. "At this rate, jerkoff, people would _thank _me for killing you. How the fuck do you contribute, huh? It's your fault everyone has to leave! You couldn't just leave well enough alone!"

"It was a _barn_ fulla _walkers_!"

"Who gives a shit? They were locked up before you went around like a lunatic breaking the locks!"

It wasn't clear who threw the first punch. It was probably him, but this time, I punched back. He was bigger than me, burlier than me, but I was faster. I'd grown up having to be fast, and I had another trick up my sleeve—this wasn't my first time having a larger man take a swing at me.

I was able to duck under one of his swings, getting an uppercut to his jaw. Lori was shouting at Shane to get off of me, Rick was heading toward us, but for now, I was winning. Then Shane got a hold of my shoulders, throwing me against a tree so that the wind rushed from my lungs. I wasn't against the tree long—my back hit the ground next, and Shane was on top, making good work of my face with his fists. There were stabs of pain, but mostly I felt frustration and anger, flowing out of my fingertips, and I jabbed him swiftly in the solar plexus. He doubled over, and I pushed him off of me, my instincts directing me to get as far away from him as I could, recover, and then go back in.

"Don't you run away from me," he growled, grabbing my jeans by the belt loops and pulling me back. I clawed at him before I fumbled my hand into a fist. There was the sound of ripping fabric.

"For Christ's sake, Shane, get off of her!" Rick was behind the other man, holding him back by the waist.

"No!" Shane threw Rick off, the two tussling for a little bit. "She asked for it! She—"

"This isn't helping, Shane!" Lori screeched.

Carol's arms were around me from behind, shielding me in a maternal manner, and when Shane looked at me with eyes full of bloodlust, I scrambled back in sudden fear. He would kill me if he had the chance.

Rick had Shane's arms locked behind his back while Shane panted like an animal, glaring at me, when a blur appeared in the corner of my vision. That blur appeared in front of Shane, and then Shane's head suddenly flew back, and he slumped slightly in Rick's grip.

_Daryl_.

"Don't ever fuckin' touch her again," he growled in a low voice.

"She—"

"I don't care if she cuts off your balls and puts them in a jar, _you don't fuckin' touch her_."

Daryl looked at me, his eyes meeting mine, and I felt myself holding my breath. Was I doing this all for his attention? Was that why I was acting out? So he'd have no choice but to see me? To notice that _hey, I'm still here_?

"Jane."

My breath released in a whoosh. Carol was still holding me, shielding me, but her grip relaxed slightly. "Daryl."

"What'd you do that for?" His gaze lingered on my lip, which I could tell was split, and at the bruise that was probably blossoming on my already-tender cheek—from the last time Shane hit me, ironically.

"I—" _I don't know. He deserved it_.

"I thought you weren't gonna do anything stupid, Jane."

"I never promised that."

"No." His gaze hardened and my arm lifted halfway as if to reach out for him. "Guess you didn't. This is the last time, Jane."

"Last time?" came Carol's voice in my ear. "Last time for what?"

_Last time._

"You won't always have him protectin' you, bitch," snarled Shane.

He was right. Because this was the last time. This was the last time Daryl would ever do anything for me again.

_No_.

_Yes. You've really fucked up, Jane. Congratulations._

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><p><em><em>A/N: alright, so i really really like this chapter. xD **review** please!


	13. Her Balance Needs Work

A/N: slightly shorter chapter again. brief mentions of Daryl.

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><p>I took my last shower early that morning. When I wiped the steam from the mirror, staring at my reflection, something seemed off. I tugged lightly at a strand of my hair, slowly lifting my hand to open the medicine cabinet. There. I closed it, eying my reflection, and imagined it saying, <em>I dare you<em>.

I lifted the scissors and cut a bit of the hair hanging nearest my face. It was oddly liberating. Didn't look too terrible either…

When I had finished cutting, there were clumps of my hair on the sink. I smiled thinly to myself. I now had fringe bangs, and my hair no longer even brushed my shoulders.

Lori was the first to see me after I cut it. She ushered me right back into the bathroom, something about it not being even in the back. After she fixed it, however, she looked concerned.

"Why'd you cut it?" she asked.

I looked at her in the mirror. "I'm not like you. I'm not pretty. We had the same amount of dirt on us, but I always looked grimier. My hair doesn't do what yours is doing. It's just…easier this way."

She listened to me patiently and then nodded. "The short cut suits you."

I remembered something once about a drastic change in appearance representing an identity crisis.

The thought made me laugh.

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><p>I didn't say goodbye to anyone when I left. It was the middle of the day, there was no way to leave without them knowing, I just simply said nothing. Carol called out for me, her voice raw and tired after what happened with Sophia, but Daryl said her name sharply. Probably to keep her from going after me. I didn't look back, but before I was out of earshot, I heard Shane say, "Let her go. She made her choice."<p>

"You didn't leave her much of a choice," Glenn snapped.

After that, I didn't hear any more. The group and I were no longer together. I was on my own.

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><p>…That was dramatic for about five seconds.<p>

Here's what actually happened.

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><p>Within six hours of being alone, I felt like a frightened little girl. I jumped at shadows, jumped at the sound of breaking twigs, and didn't get anywhere near anything that could hide a walker.<p>

The sky darkened quicker than I thought it would. As I tried to find a tree I could actually reach—hey, I was short—I heard crunching leaves. When I turned, there was nothing.

_You're just jumpy, _I rationalized. _There's nothing there. Walkers don't know how to be stealthy._

Still, I barely slept the first night.

The second night was a little better. I'd learned to balance on a branch long enough to get in a good two-hour doze.

The third night, I heard snarling as a walker noticed me on my perch, which was decidedly lower than usual. I struggled, covering my mouth with one hand so I wouldn't scream when its clammy dead hands grabbed onto my dangling leg, but I managed to use one of my handmade arrows as a spear, stabbing it straight through its eye.

I caught my breath, shaking a little, and wiped its disgusting blood from my hand. I used that day to check my location on the map—honestly, I was only fifty percent sure I was going the right way—and practice with my bow. I imagined Daryl in my ear, the instruction he'd give me, and before night fell I was finally able to get one of the sharpened sticks whizzing through the air.

Two days later, I fell off my branch. I landed on the leaf-covered ground with a hard thud and a crack, my arms covering my face. There was searing pain for a few seconds, blinding my vision with white hot light, and I couldn't figure out what had broken. I laid there, gasping for breath in between the fluctuating pain, and only when I tried to stand did I realized what I had hurt.

I collapsed back onto the ground, clenching my fist at the burning pain, spreading from just below my right breast. I rolled over, crying out, but I couldn't lie on my stomach anymore—the pain I'd experienced while trying to calm my breathing had actually been because it hurt to inhale. And exhale. And really just breathe at all.

I took short breathes, clenching my jaw, and peeled up my shirt, taking a quick glance around to make sure there wasn't a threat nearby. I was alone.

There was a hideous purple bruise already beginning to form, swelling, and as I gingerly ghosted my hand over it I realized where I'd seen this before. After a particularly bad fight, Grant had looked like this once. I'd driven him to the hospital in tears, and they'd told him it was a fractured rib. Several, actually. He was on painkillers for four weeks while he healed.

From the size of the bruise and the amount of pain, I probably had only one fractured rib. Shit. Grant hadn't been able to move, even _with_ the painkillers. I wouldn't survive for four weeks like this.

Tears flowed freely from my eyes, partially the pain, partially frustration. I knew there was a possibility that, if it was more than a fracture, that moving risked puncturing my lung, and then I'd really be screwed. But my eyes found the golf bag tied to the branch, and I needed to get it down. That was the first thing that needed to happen.

Getting to my feet was a challenge. I stumbled quite a bit, shouting several times at the pain, getting dizzy from the short breaths I was forced to take. I reached up for the bag, immediately regretting it, and I had to lean against the tree or let my legs give out.

"Why?" I grumbled, gasping. "Why now? I'm only five days in. Why?"

The pain took me to unconsciousness not long after that, and my last conscious thought before succumbing was, _I'm going to die alone out here._

* * *

><p>I dreamed Daryl was with me. He lifted me in his arms, my pain dulled, and I absorbed his heat. He had my golf bag slung over his shoulder, and he was carrying me away—<em>back to the group?<em>—but all too soon he laid me down on something soft.

_Don't go yet._

His lips pressed briefly to my forehead. "Love you. Be more careful."

_I'm trying to be careful, don't go yet, I love—_

Then I was awake. It was nighttime, and immediately fear spiked in my heart. It was night and I was alone and on the ground and vulnerable—

"Relax, little lady, I'm not gonna hurt ya."

There was a small fire, with a brawny middle-aged man sitting at the other side of it. He was the one who had spoken. Despite his gruff voice and five o'clock shadow, his eyes were kind.

"Don't try to move, you been hurt pretty bad." He nodded at my side, on which there was I now realized a cold compress. "Tryin'a bring down the swelling at least. It's almost time to take more'a them pain pills too."

"Pain pills?" I was still dizzy, but I realized that the pain had indeed faded a little.

The man nodded. "Found 'em in yer bag. Strong stuff, little lady. Hope whoever Merle is ain't missin' 'em."

_Merle? Wasn't that Daryl's…_

_Daryl. You must have snuck them in my bag before I left. _I didn't know whether to be touched that he'd given me medicine out of his brother's stash, or to be offended that he thought I was going to seriously hurt myself. "Who are you?"

"Wade Johnson," he said with a curt nod. "My wife Lyssa's in the tent, restin' up for her shift. What 'bout you? Got a name?"

"Jane."

Wade raised an eyebrow. "Got a last name?"

_Bishop. Buford. _"Dixon."

"Well, Jane," he stood, "there's a little bit o' food here. Eat quickly, I wanna put out the fire so we don't draw 'ttention to ourselves. I got first watch."

_The hell was I thinking? Jane Dixon? What does it matter what my last name is?_

I ate slowly. My chest ached as if a weight had been placed upon it, but when Wade and Lyssa traded shifts, and she opened her palm to reveal two more pills, I slowly fell into restless oblivion.

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><p>AN: any thoughts? **review**.


	14. Raise Hell

A/N: it's been so long since i've updated haha. it's a tad bit shorter chapter-wise.

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><p>"You're just bein' paranoid, Jane," said Wade in his gruff baritone. "Don't see what point someone'd have to follow us for all this time."<p>

"I guess you're right…" I rubbed my arm, soothing down the goosebumps on my skin. For the week I'd been traveling with the Johnsons, I had the feeling someone was watching me, following me. Wade was right. I was just being paranoid.

I was eternally grateful to this middle-aged couple, and I couldn't help but feel like I was slowing them down…mainly because I was. The fractured rib meant I could only walk on my own for an hour, maximum. After that, Lyssa had to support me _and _carry her supplies. Wade, much stronger than his wife, carried my golf bag and the remainder of their supplies. When Lyssa began to tire, that meant it was time for me to take more pills and for the spouses to switch duties. Wade would sling my bag across his back, take me from Lyssa and scoop me up, supporting my knees and back so that I was lying flat, and Lyssa would take the supplies.

Wade taught me to improve my aim, assuring me that as long as I could shoot, carrying me with them was no burden. After four days of the proper training—he was an ex-military man, but that was all he would say on the matter—I could finally shoot where I wanted the bullet to go. It wasn't perfect, but it was an improvement.

They told me they were traveling to the coast. I explained about the lake house, and they promised to go that way, though a curt Lyssa told me that I'd have a place with them if the lake house option fell through.

I felt like I was reborn. I had a second chance. They didn't know about my father, never would. I wasn't Jane Bishop, I was Jane Dixon—_Why in hell did I choose that last name?_—and I would never have to be Jane Bishop again.

There was a rustle behind us and I spun on my heel, wincing at the pain that sudden movement caused me. Wade was beginning to lose his patience with me and I knew that. I wanted to stop. I wanted to accept that I was safe. Except I'd done that with my father, and look what happened. I'd done that with Daryl, and look what happened.

I was never safe.

"Jane, ain't nothin' there," he said. Sure enough, there was exasperation seeping into his tone. "We gotta get a move on—"

"Just let me check," I said, straining my eyes, searching the foliage desperately for any sign of—

"I'm tellin' you, there ain't nothin'—"

He stopped when Lyssa laid a hand on his arm. He gave her a strange look, but that was when we both heard it: the snarling. I tensed, reaching one arm behind me with my hand open, expecting Wade to hand me my golf bag in which contained my weapon. Instead, he shoved the things he was carrying into Lyssa's arms, drew his gun, and growled, "Stay here," before rushing towards the noise.

"Where are you going?" I hissed. When I started after him, Lyssa grabbed for my hand.

"Don't," she said simply. She was a woman of few words, but even considering that, it was an odd thing for her to say. I heard a shot in the direction he'd ran.

"He's going to get himself killed!" I said, protesting adamantly. I didn't dare try to tear away from her grip, however. She was a strong woman, stronger than me, and the effort of twisting away would only stress my injury.

It didn't matter. Her hand fell away from me, flying to her hip where she had stowed her gun, and she aimed past me for barely a second before firing. The walker behind fell, and while she was distracted, I ignored the pain in my side and set off at my fastest for where the walker had come from—the direction Wade had gone.

My vision had narrowed as I came to a small clearing. I lifted my bow, seeing Wade grappling with a walker, and there were two more I could see peripherally. I ignored them for the brief seconds I needed to launch the arrow, and that was my first mistake. As I let the 'arrow' fly, there was barely a lapse between when I saw it strike the walker's head with a fleshy thunk and when my head met the ground and my side exploded with pain.

One of the two walkers I'd ignored had rushed me, the second one not far behind, knocking me to the ground and attempting to gnaw at me. My gaze was blurring with the pain, muscles in my arms trembling with strain as I tried to fight it back. I heard a gunshot as Wade or Lyssa took out the second walker, but I was losing against this one. I felt my elbows buckling, smelled decomposing flesh, felt its rotting skin against mine as—

Its congealed blood was flicked across my chest as an arrow appeared through its skull.

An arrow.

Oh God, I'm hallucinating.

I pushed the body off of me, spasming, coughing and crying. Coughing hurt. Deep breaths hurt. Sitting still hurt.

"Don't move," someone was saying to me. "That was stupid, girly, you shoulda just let Wade handle it."

"Wade!" I called out, closing my eyes against the voice. "Lyssa? You guys okay?"

I turned onto my uninjured side, clenching my jaw as I forced myself up until I was standing. "Wade, what the hell were you thinking? We just could've run—" I cried out against the white-hot fire in my side. "Fuck. I need more medicine."

"If you hadn't charged in like an idiot, you'd be fine."

Again with that damned voice!

"Wade, seriously, I think I'm hallucinating—"

I opened my eyes cautiously, seeking out Wade. He was looking not at me, but at something behind me. Another walker? Except he wasn't lifting his gun, clutched tightly in his right hand. He was just staring, a serious expression in place.

"Thought you said you were gonna stay hidden, Daryl."

I felt my eyes widen, turning my head—Daryl Dixon, in the flesh, was standing directly behind me with his crossbow slung across his shoulder. His other hand held the arrow, freshly wrenched from the fallen walker.

"Tried," he said with a shrug. "Damn geeks caught me off guard."

After that, much to my embarrassment, I passed out.

* * *

><p>"I cannot believe you."<p>

"Girly, listen—"

"No. I can't believe you. Of all the sneaky, underhanded—"

My angry words were cut short as I cried out in pain. I froze in place, trying to breathe deeply, but my rib was making that extremely difficult. It didn't help that I was torn between throttling the man in front of me or wrapping him in a hug.

Daryl Dixon stood beside me, Wade checking on Lyssa, and it had taken me a little while before I realized when I woke up that he was no hallucination. He was really there.

He had _really_ followed behind us for _an entire week_.

"You have no faith in my ability to take care of myself, do you?" I snapped once my breath returned, glaring at him.

His eyes fixed pointedly at my side.

"Shut up!"

"I didn't say nothin', girly."

I reached for my golf bag, flinching, and he swooped out to grab the pill bottle from the pocket. He dumped two in his palm and handed them to me. I swallowed them dry.

"Guess I should thank you for these," I grumbled. "What did Wade mean when he said 'thought you were gonna stay hidden'? Did he know?"

Daryl sighed. "Look, girly, I knew you'd do something rash, not just 'cause you're you, but 'cause no one survives very long out here on their own. I was followin' you, saw you fall outta that tree, found Wade and his wife, and asked them to keep an eye on you."

"And you kept following me?" I asked.

He shrugged, his eyes latching on to me with such a smoldering, steady look—it was just his natural gaze, the damn bastard—that my knees actually began to tremble again…and this time, not from the pain. "Couldn't stay with 'em anymore."

Then my head really truly wrapped around the concept. "So when I fell off the tree and passed out…"

"I brought you to Wade, explained, and told him not to tell you I was gonna follow."

"_Why_ did you have to _hide from me_?" I stepped up closer to him, almost challenging him.

"Would you have been happy to see me, girly?"

I bit my lip. _Yes._ He moved to walk past me and stopped just short of it, kissing my forehead briefly—just like the night I injured myself, in the hallucination that wasn't a hallucination—and he whispered, "I'm not goin' anywhere, girly. I don't care what you say, how much you argue, how much hell you raise, I'm stayin' right fuckin' here."

* * *

><p>AN: well? what'd you think? :)


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